The Snow was Black
by Wyoming Outlaw
Summary: From the sands of the African desert to the snowy forests of Europe, Dietrich has been led by Fate down a path pre-destined. As he struggles to follow it, Dietrich finds it may lead to the end of more than just the war. (Please, if you are kind enough to post a review, it would be appreciated if you do not include any spoilers in your comments.)
1. Prologue

**Cowards die many times before their deaths;**

 **The valiant never taste of death but once.**

-Shakespeare, _Julius Ceaser_

I clearly remembered the only time in my life I had gone fox hunting.

It was long before the war began. A few years after receiving my commission, I had been on holiday in London. One evening, I met an extremely attractive woman named Alice at the theatre. Wanting to get to know her better, I had invited her to dinner.

The sport came up in conversation. Alice held an obvious interest and dedication to it and she spoke passionately about it for quite some time. I had heard of fox hunting, but I had never participated in a hunt myself and I knew little of its details. Fox hunting was a pastime which had held little interest for my family, even before Hitler had banned it in Germany.

Over the course of the evening, I asked Alice a few questions regarding fox hunting to better understand her fascination with it. She responded with enthusiasm about its traditions and practices. Alice eagerly wanted to show me the hunt firsthand. As luck would have it, there was a hunt scheduled, one to be mastered by her father. She invited me to her family's estate for the upcoming weekend.

I was intrigued by the prospect. I accepted Alice's invitation, wanting to experience this aspect of English upper class culture. My friends were jealous of my good fortune to spend the weekend with such an attractive woman. I left them with a grin, promising to meet them in a few days.

I still can see the disastrous weekend as clearly as if it was yesterday.

To me, the weekend was nothing more than a casual meeting between two people who barely knew each other. Alice's intentions to the contrary soon became obvious. She would not leave my side, completely ignoring the other guests her family had invited. She hung onto my arm and her frequent cloying "Hans, Darling" was annoying from the first time she uttered it.

It did not take me long to comprehend Alice, one of the most beautiful women imaginable, had been graced with the ugliest of personalities.

I soon began avoiding her when possible, wanting nothing more than to escape her presence. I looked forward to the weekend ending and me being able to return to my friends.

I had only myself to blame. I had wanted to get to know her better. Unfortunately, I had succeeded.

The hunt began early the next morning. The procedures and guidelines were explained to me, and after the hounds and riders were gathered we departed. It was a beautiful day in late autumn and it was a pleasure to ride in the cool, crisp air.

It did not take long for the hounds to catch the scent. Soon we were hunting the fox across the bucolic countryside. I was an experienced rider and had frequently ridden cross country. I was at ease with the rapid and, at times, frantic pace with which we rode across the fields and fences.

The longer the hunt lasted, the more I found myself disengaging. I was beginning to tire along with my steed. I could only imagine what the poor fox was experiencing as we ran it to ground. Alice and the other riders around me seemed unaffected, as enthusiastic as they had been at the hunt's beginning. They began to comment about the tenacity and the cunning strength of the fox.

Eventually, the fox became exhausted and was overtaken by the hounds. Torn apart by the beasts, it screamed out in its death agony. As the poor animal breathed its last, the lovely and refined Alice laughed and clapped her delicate hands in delight.

The hounds were called off. Alice's father retrieved the mangled carcass. It was impossible to believe that only a few minutes before, this beautiful creature had been alive. Her father approached me. Motioning for me to lean down from my mount, he proceeded to dip his fingers in the fox's blood. He smeared it on my cheek bones before casually throwing the animal's remains to the hounds.

I was taken aback by his gesture, not understanding its significance.

"You've been bloodied, Hans Darling," Alice explained. "The marks symbolize this was your first hunt." She moved her horse closer, her leg pressing against mine. "You look very masculine with the markings. I find it very . . . sensual," she said, her voice low and husky. She moved her horse even closer and began rubbing her knee against mine.

"And the fox? How do you find it?" I asked her, my revulsion rising like bile in my throat. I found her casual dismissal of the animal's hunt and death disgusting. I seriously regretted ever wanting to know anything about hunting.

"The fox was nothing more than a pest. It needed to be eliminated. Besides, you're in the military. You should be used to death." Alice's eyes were wide. "After all, what is the military all about if not to hunt down and kill as many of the enemy as possible? Isn't it the reason you joined?"

"Not in the least. You know nothing of me, or the reasons I serve." I moved my horse away, dismissing her.

Wanting to remove myself from the sordid event and from Alice's presence, I dug my heels into my horse, urging it along. Leaving Alice and the others behind, I returned to the manor in peace.

Alone in my room, I studied the marks in a mirror.

Reminiscent of the poorly applied rouge of a male transvestite, they were high and prominent across my cheek bones. The blood had dried to a muddy brown, part of it having already cracked and fallen off. I gently touched the blood. More of it flaked and fell into the sink basin.

I washed my face clean of the evidence, but I could not forget the barbarity I had witnessed. The poor creature! Its last moments must have been agonizing.

I avoided Alice for the remainder of the day, managing to sit as far away from her at dinner as the large table and the number of guests allowed.

However, even as I avoided Alice, with all of the other guests still giddy after a good day at the hunt, it was difficult for me to avoid unpleasant conversation. As soon as politeness allowed, I retired alone to bed. With the dawning of the next morning, the weekend would be over. Thank God. It could not come soon enough.

The house was quiet. I had not been asleep long when I awoke, aware of someone stopping outside my door. Assuming it only to be a fellow guest lost in the massive house, I waited for the sound of footsteps moving away. Instead, I was surprised at the turn of the handle and, then, at the push of the door.

The lock clicked softly behind my intruder. I was instantly and fully awake.

I could see by the waning firelight my visitor was Alice.

She slipped off her silk robe, revealing nothing underneath it. She slid into my bed, leaving no doubt what she desired. She soon began kissing and caressing me, intertwining her legs with mine, every move signifying an attempt at seduction.

"I always take a man the night they've been bloodied. It's almost like taking their virginity a second time." Alice began to lightly bite my neck. Soon, she was on top of me, straddling me, her scarlet nails digging into my chest.

"I see. And here it was I believed you were attracted to me for my social position, my money and my good looks." My voice was derisive in the darkness.

Even though I hadn't been joking, Alice laughed. She began to rub her hips against mine, her naked lust electrifying my nude body.

Responding to her, I reached up and intertwined my hand in her dark tresses. Matching her aggressiveness, I pulled her down to me. Demonstrating my power over her, I held her there for a moment, not allowing her to move. Centimeters from mine, her eyes were bright with smoldering want.

I could not have loathed Alice more, but my growing arousal trumped all else. Never one to pass on the offer of gratuitous consensual sex, I was not above using her for my satisfaction. I moved on top of her, inserting myself between her thighs, forcing her underneath me. If we were to do this, I would be the one in control. Not Alice.

I took her, not caring in the least if I satisfied her hunger as long as my own was assuaged. As uncharacteristic of me as it was to so blatantly use a woman's body, I had no concerns for the obviously self-centered and shallow Alice.

When I had satisfied my needs, I moved off her and lit a cigarette.

"Leave now." I motioned towards the door. I blew a plume of smoke to the ceiling. "We both have what we wanted."

Instead of vacating my bed, she curled closer to me. Her hand traveled down my body. Stroking, teasing, Alice was obviously seeking to arouse me again. She was ready and willing to continue, apparently the coarse and uncontrolled sex had appealed to her.

I, however, was finished with her.

"I said 'leave.'" This time I shoved her with my foot. "I got what I wanted. Your services are no longer required."

Alice's anger was immediate and evident, even in the darkness.

"I should tell my father about this," she threatened. "He won't be happy about you making love to his daughter in the room next to his."

The proximity of her father was the only thing which prevented me from laughing out loud. "I would hardly call what we just did 'making love', but feel free to tell him what you want," I responded, amused. "Your father's first thought will be knowing why you came to be in my room when I retired long ago. His second thought will be that his daughter is a whore. An opinion, no doubt, he already possesses."

"You fascist pig! I hope you're killed in the upcoming war!" Alice snatched her robe from the floor and left in an obvious piqued state of mind.

She slammed the door, not caring if her parents heard the commotion.

The next day, Alice claiming to be ill, did not appear for breakfast. She was also absent for my departure shortly afterwards. Her parents appeared bewildered at the situation, not understanding why their daughter's obvious affection towards me had so quickly soured.

I formally thanked my hosts for the weekend before leaving. Etiquette forced me to send them a thank-you note afterwards. But frankly, I cared little what they thought. I had no desire to see any of them again, especially not Alice. I never did.

And as for fox hunting, I would never participate in such an ugly and barbaric sport again.

At least not in the role of the hunter. How times and had changed and oh, how the tables had turned.

I had become a hunted animal.

Inevitably, it would result in my death.

Now nothing more than a ragged beast, I had discovered what is was like to be pursued and tracked. The hunter growing closer and closer to me, I ran with an instinctual need for self-preservation. Desperately, locked in a hopeless competition, I clung to a remote hope of survival.

I was fighting for my life, doing everything within my abilities to stay alive. I brought forward all the combat skills I had absorbed on different battlefields and the theoretical strategies learned in Academy classrooms. It was all for naught. Nothing could compete against the indisputable advantages possessed by my hunters.

The Allies would never cease their quest until an unconditional surrender was given by Nazi Germany, a concession Hitler would never make while alive. His selfishness and his pride continued to condemn all of those around me, soldiers and civilians, German and Allied, to death.

Now, I knew what the fox had felt when the hounds were closing in, the men following immediate behind on their strong steeds.

Just like the fox, I was exhausted from the constant strain of retreat. The enemy had been constantly pushing from the rear, forcing engagement with us whenever possible, never allowing us the possibility of regrouping. Counter attacking was an impossibility; we were just trying to survive let alone have the military strength to push the enemy back from German soil. My beloved Germany had now been invaded and would soon be strangled silent by the enemy approaching from both sides.

The war should have ended months ago, but still, the killing endured.

I knew the war could not be won. We were down to the final days. It would be impossible to survive much longer. We had little munitions remaining, even less food. Yet, for the sake of our honor, it was critical to keep our oaths. I continued fighting along with my men, I encouraging them to continue fighting for a worthless cause.

Would the enemy be gracious in winning? Those from the West, perhaps. From the East, never. They wanted nothing less than our blood. Much like the hounds who had caught the scent of the poor fox so many years ago, the Soviets would not stop until we were all dead.


	2. 1944 - 20 Juli

I had learned of the assassination attempt against Hitler much like any other member of the Wehrmacht had. Vague stories had begun to surface: Earlier that afternoon, a bombing had occurred, with the Fuhrer as the intended target. Those rumors soon gave way to rampant speculation and anxiety.

Early reports stated the Fuhrer had been killed, in an East Prussian conference room, along with several others of his senior staff. Those stories were almost immediately followed by reports of Hitler's survival. None of us knew what to believe. I doubted the announcers themselves knew.

Since he had begun his rise to power, there had been reports of several attempts against Hitler. Many of them I knew to be true. Others had likely been created by his propaganda team for no other purpose other than inflating his popularity.

I had little time and even less patience for such nonsense. There were more immediate military issues requiring my attention. Six weeks earlier, the British and Americans forces had landed in France, and the Eastern Front was rapidly collapsing. My days were long, comprised of little else than constant combat. Sleep was a rare luxury, limited to the few precious hours I could snatch whenever and wherever I could.

It wasn't until late evening when I began placing credence to the rumors. News of a failed coup in Berlin has also surfaced. The capital had been locked down, secured by troops loyal to the Fuhrer.

Upon hearing the latest news, I forced myself to acknowledge there could be some truth to the latest accounts. This attempt had been more serious than previous ones and from the sounds of it, it had come the closest to succeeding.

It would need to go beyond just killing Hitler. Assassination alone would accomplish little. Success would only be assured if his entire inner circle was also eradicated including Goring, Goebbels and Himmler. If even just one of them survived, he would merely assume the Fuhrer's role, continuing Hitler's insane pursuit of power and domination.

When Hitler himself broadcast he was alive, it was after midnight. I instantly recognized the harsh voice confirming the attempt had failed. There was no doubt. Hitler was still the leader of Germany. He rambled on for several minutes before naming the lead perpetrator as Claus Graf von Stauffenberg, an Oberst in the Heer. Von Stauffenberg had been quickly captured and executed for his treachery.

I knew von Stauffenberg slightly from our joint service in North Africa. He had seemed a good man and a capable officer. Von Stauffenberg would not, and could not, have acted alone. Other officers must have been involved, probably high ranking ones. As if reading my thoughts, Hitler elaborated how von Stauffenberg had been assisted by other treacherous Wehrmacht officers. Shortly, he would be joined in death by the others who had dared to commit such a treasonous act. Hitler promised anyone involved would be dealt with harshly by the Reich.

My heart seized for my fellow officers.

The Nazi leaders had never had a warm relationship with the Wehrmacht. It would now turn into a profound distrust bordering on hatred. Anyone remotely suspected of participating in the coup would be ruthlessly rounded up, convicted during mock trials and executed immediately afterwards.

Not long after the attempt, all Wehrmacht members were forced to re-swear their service oath to Hitler. The act was to prove our loyalty, but even more so, to force us to acknowledge our submission to Hitler.

I was insulted to have to pledge my loyalty a second time. I had willingly sworn my oath directly to Hitler in 1934, when he had attended my Academy class' graduation ceremony. I had always respected my oath, my honor alone preventing me from breaking it. While I had come to loathe Hitler and the National Socialists, I would continue to stand by my vow until Nazi Germany fell and Hitler was no longer in power.

Further insult and subordination was demanded of the Wehrmacht when we were ordered to use the Nazi salute instead of our traditional military salute. I despised the gesture.

I had always avoided it whenever possible, only giving it when I knew my superior officer expected it, or the situation demanded it. Thankfully, most of the officers to which I had reported were traditionalists and shared my belief regarding the bastard practice. Many of us continued using the military salute discreetly, defying the order. A few of my subordinates would present the Party salute, mostly the younger ones who had been indoctrinated at an early age, knowing of nothing else. I would vaguely wave off the Nazi salute, eschewing having to respond to it.

To avoid casting unwarranted suspicion on either them or myself in the following days, I purposely avoided any unusual interactions with my fellow officers. Soon afterwards, with a start, I remembered the conversation I had held with my leutnant, Rainer Hahn. The conversation had taken place when we had been ordered to Rhodes, preparing for our mission to abduct the boy Miles Simmons.

I chastised myself for not recalling it sooner.

Hahn had been against our mission to kidnap the boy and he had openly admitted his profound distaste for Hitler. He had then proceeded to vaguely mention Wehrmacht officers conspiring to kill Hitler and their plans to seize the government. Hahn's open admiration of their efforts had left little doubt he was obviously supportive of the conspirators and had admired their efforts.

It was critical for me to confront Hahn regarding his possible involvement or knowledge of this latest attempt, but I needed to do so without rising any suspicions from the authorities. When my unit was ordered to provide artillery support against the enemy, I seized the opportunity. I would be able to speak with Hahn privately, without raising suspicions from any officials or fellow soldiers.

Hahn had been ordered to call out artillery range coordinates against the enemy. It was a dangerous assignment, but he had an excellent eye for distance. It was a task I had frequently delegated to him in the past. Accompanying Hahn was a febel, who was noting the numbers for him. They were spotting from a remote ridge which provided a good line of sight against the far-flung enemy.

I informed my adjutant I would join Hahn to survey the battlefield conditions personally. I waved off his protests and made my way up the ridge. It was necessary for me to crawl the last several meters to avoid being seen by the Allied snipers.

Febel Franz Schmidt was shocked at my appearance. I gave him a slight nod, not acknowledging his reaction. Unlike some officers, I was frequently on the front lines. My presence should have been a surprise to no one, especially the men who reported to me.

"Herr Major!" he stammered.

"Febel Schmidt, you may deliver the coordinates to the artillery teams," I ordered. "Inform them to immediately commence firing. I will remain here with Leutnant Hahn to confirm their accuracy and obtain any necessary revisions."

"I know you prefer being on the front line, Herr Major, but it is not safe for you to be this far forward. It won't be long before the enemy determines this location as the one responsible for spotting its positions," Schmidt said, attempting to dissuade me. "They will bring heavy fire upon this area to protect their armor."

"Agreed," I replied as I settled in. I brought my field glasses up, surveying the battleground. "Now, provide the coordinates to the teams before the enemy re-positions itself and they become irrelevant."

Schmidt gave me a resigned look and left without saying another word, crawling away on his mission.

I said nothing to Hahn for a few minutes, waiting for the German artillery to begin their barrage. Our privacy would be brief and I would need to make the most of it.

The German barrage soon opened with a mighty thunder. The shells flew above us and struck several of the enemy positions below. I shook my head in disbelief at Hahn's amazing accuracy. No other could call out coordinates with such precision.

There was a storm of activity below. The enemy would rapidly re-position themselves and seek to eliminate the German spotters. We would be forced to retreat soon.

I now believed it safe to address Hahn. It would be impossible for anyone to hear our words over the din of the bombardment. To ensure our confidentiality, I moved closer to him. Our bodies barely touched through our thin summer uniforms, but the innocent contact made my skin crawl. I very much wanted to move away from Hahn, but I forced myself to endure it.

"Tell me you were not involved in it," I ordered him in a low voice, not bothering to frame it in a question.

Hahn knew exactly what I was referencing; it wasn't necessary for me to elaborate. He began to turn towards me to respond.

"Don't look at me," I told him without taking my eyes from the scene below me. "You are supposed to be confirming your coordinates, not looking at your commanding officer with a look of shock on your face."

Hahn quickly looked away, snapping his field glasses up to his face again. Both of us continued to intently survey the battlefield in front of us.

"I have been waiting for you to approach me on this subject, Herr Major. I knew you would eventually remember our conversation on Rhodes," he responded, his voice shaky.

"I needed to wait for the right opportunity to avoid suspicion against the both of us. Now I am still waiting for an answer," I demanded. "I must know the truth so I can immediately act to save you if possible."

"No, Herr Major," Hahn stammered. "I am in no way involved."

I relaxed at his reassurance, but I found it necessary to press him.

"Did you have any knowledge of it? Those who knew of it and did nothing to report it will be treated just as harshly, if not more so, as the participants."

Hahn paused before slightly shaking his head.

"You hesitated before answering," I pushed him. "Why?"

He was still looking forward like he was studying the bombardment. "I knew nothing of this attempt."

I was not expecting such a response. My stomach knotted. "What do you mean by 'this attempt'? Mein Gott, Hahn! Of how many others were you aware?"

I heard the incoming whistle of an Allied shell. I knew it would fall far short. The both of us mentally dismissed it and did not move. The Allies were testing the range themselves with their own spotters. We were still safe for the moment.

"I knew of one of the earlier attempts," Hahn responded. He then quickly added, "But just vaguely, nothing exact."

Hahn's poor situation was rapidly becoming worse.

"Which attempt?" I asked.

"I heard talk of an assi. . ."

"I believe it would be best for the both of us if you did not use that particular word," I interrupted, silencing him. We were far forward and I doubted anyone was within earshot of overhearing him, especially with the artillery fire, but I wanted to take no chances. We could be unaware of another soldier approaching within the last few minutes to deliver a message.

"I overhead talk of 'action' when I was in Paris."

"When?"

"It was the 21st of May, 1941," he answered immediately. "I have never forgotten the date."

The enemy was on the move below. Another incoming shell announced itself and I knew it would be much closer than the last one. We both flattened ourselves against the ground. It landed behind us, spraying up dirt and rocks. Yes, the Allies must have determined our location as the German spotters. They would attempt to take out both the artillery and us at the same time. Our remaining time would be brief.

"And how did you become aware of it?" I asked.

"I was in Paris on leave. I had drunk too much and passed out in the closet of my hotel room," he said. From the corner of my I could see his look of embarrassment. "I woke up early in the morning when I vaguely became aware of voices in the adjoining room. I could only catch part of what they were saying since the water was running. I heard them talk about a plot to shoot the Fuhrer at a parade, but the parade had been cancelled. They weren't sure of what to do next. I was too scared to move so I stayed in the closet without making a sound until they checked out the next day."

Another shell landed near us and both of us ducked down again into the dirt. They were hitting a little too close for comfort. The enemy was finding its range against us.

"It appears the Allies know we are here. Leutnant, recall the coordinates and I will mark them for you," I ordered him calmly. I brought out my field notebook and a pencil.

Hahn began calling numbers with a shaky voice.

"Who were these men?" I continued.

Hahn shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, but they sounded like Wehrmacht officers. 1928, 1313, 1955. . ."

"And how do officers 'sound' since you are also an officer?" I asked with a frown. I never thought of officers, including myself, as sounding different than any other soldiers.

"I don't know. Educated, cultured, well spoken? They mentioned troop movements, seemed to know more about the military situation than an average enlisted soldier. I wasn't an officer back then so I noticed," he explained. Hahn soon stopped calling the coordinates.

"Continue with the coordinates, Leutnant. The enemy is re-positioning themselves and our artillery will need the updated ranges. You never mentioned this incident when we had a similar conversation on Rhodes."

"1972, 1905, 1934." His voice was quiet. "I didn't want to implicate you, Herr Major. I hoped I would never have to think about it again. I just wanted it to go away."

"Well, it has very much remained. These types of things just don't 'go away.'"

The shells were now landing consistently near us, encircling us in a tightening range.

"Herr Major, the enemy must have pinpointed our position as the spotters for our artillery." Hahn sounded concerned and uneasy about the proximity of the shells. "We should move before they become too accurate. I don't think it will take them much longer for them to do so."

"I would agree with you," I answered, not willing to let it go so easily. "But, we will depart in a few minutes. We have not finished our conversation, nor updating the coordinates."

I thought for a moment. "If by some remote chance you are questioned, you are to state you spent the evening at Madame Rochelle's."

"Madame Rochelle's?" Hahn asked with a puzzled voice. "What type of place is it? Is it a tea café or coffee house?"

I sighed. Hahn was young, but I hadn't known he was so naïve. The type of establishment should be obvious given its name.

"A gentleman's entertainment venue," I attempted to explain without embarrassing him.

He immediately understood and colored anyway. "Herr Major!" he sputtered and turned to look at me again despite my previous warning. "I can only imagine what type of women work there and how they earn a living! What would my mother say if she thought I had been to such a place?"

It was on the tip of my tongue to say she would believe him to be a normal and healthy young man enjoying his sexuality with a willing and adventurous partner, but I decided to save Hahn from further embarrassment.

"I believe she would think little of it to ensure the survival of her son's life," I said instead. "For the record, you spent the evening being entertained by a talented brunette named Sabine. Beautiful, tall, slender, but with curves. . ." I said with a slight grin, remembering the Frenchwoman.

Ah, yes! I clearly remembered the lovely Sabine and the numerous pleasurable evenings I had spent with her while I was stationed in Paris.

I could vaguely hear Hahn asking me a question, pulling me from my pleasant recollections.

"Repeat yourself, Leutnant."

"I said, do you still need the coordinates, Herr Major?"

"Um, yes," I responded, realizing my face was slightly flushed. "Continue calling them."

"Next round: 1984, 1979, 1964. I could never afford a place like Madame Rochelle's, even now. Back then I was still an enlisted man. They wouldn't have even allowed me to walk through the back door," he countered.

"State you saved your pay for it, as a special treat for your first visit to Paris and for your birthday. Trust me, you would have been admitted if you had possessed money." Even the devil himself would have been admitted. The French had made the most of Germans who had any money in their pockets.

The rocks and dirt continued to spray up around us. Our remaining time was down to a few moments at the most.

"Herr Major, I strongly suggest we should vacate our location before we are both killed," Hahn said.

"Not yet. The shelling is not yet too bad."

Hahn began to protest, but remembered the alibi I had established for him. "But my birthday is in September!"

I started to become exasperated. "Work with me, Leutnant."

Hahn colored even deeper and looked at me again, temporarily forgetting the shelling. "But how could Fraulein Sabine remember me if I was never with her? Don't you think the Gestapo will ask her to confirm my story?"

"The Allies will be retaking Paris within the month. Locating a whore from four years ago will be the least of Germany's concerns. However, you should be prepared in case the Gestapo does make it a concern of theirs. You must be able to provide a name and a place."

We were silent for several seconds. I could sense Hahn's anxiety increasing, from either the shelling or the conversation. Probably both.

"It is unlikely the officers in the other room were aware of your presence. I seriously doubt you will be questioned by the Gestapo after such a length of time has passed," I said, attempting to reassure him. "But," I continued, "The officers could have suspected someone was eavesdropping on their conversation. They would not hesitate to give you up in the hope of saving themselves. If they should do so, the authorities will now leave no stone unturned to settle all past scores and suspicions. The key is for you to remain casual and not sound rehearsed if you are questioned."

"Thank you, Herr Major, for assisting me," Hahn sighed with relief. "I've kept this bottled up inside for so long. I have always been afraid I would somehow be discovered."

"Have you mentioned this to anyone, even to a priest? A family member?"

"No, never," Hahn reassured me. "I was too scared and I didn't want anyone else to become involved."

"See to it that you don't. There is an advantage to being afraid. It keeps one alive."

The shelling was now becoming heavier. Soon they would bring up a sniper to eliminate us.

"Alright, Leutnant. I have the coordinate information we need. It is critical for us to deliver them to the artillery teams. We may depart now before your overheard remarks from long ago are taken care of for you by the enemy."

I started to crawl backwards when Hahn stopped me with a gentle touch on my forearm. Involuntarily, I jerked back from his contact, turning to see what he wanted.

"Herr Major?" Hahn glanced around to ensure no one could hear us. It was obvious he wanted to ask me a serious question. Expecting for Hahn to continue confessing, my tenseness increased.

"Yes, Leutnant?" I asked without displaying my uneasiness.

"Was Sabine really beautiful," he asked and hesitated before continuing, "and. . . Talented?"

Hahn's question caught me unaware. Generally, I kept my personal life firmly closed to my men, separate as it had always been from duty. This time, I relented.

As I took in his eager face, I slowly grinned.

"Yes, Leutnant, she was," I responded truthfully. "Very much so on both accounts. You would have enjoyed her company very much."

Thankfully, nothing came from Hahn's having overheard about the failed Paris attempt.

The Gestapo and SS rounded up and executed thousands of suspects. Some were probably real, but others were likely implicated in order to even past Nationalist Socialist scores. Hahn was never approached and gradually, his hunted look faded.

I began to relax, believing the worst was over.

But just when I believed the assassination storm had passed, it touched one of those around me for a second time.


	3. 1944 - 25 September

I drove up the villa's driveway. I would always remember that glorious late afternoon in autumn. Located outside the village of Herrlingen, the villa was a tall, stately building surrounded by mature trees. Dropping their leaves for the approaching winter, they were bursting with rich colors contrasting with the subdued paleness of the buildings.

For a moment I debated if the trees were going to be reborn in the spring. Or, if they would be dead when the winter snows melted away like the Third Reich. While the spring held promise for the trees, there was little hope of Germany surviving to rise again after the war.

I remained in the automobile for a few moments, contemplating my orders.

Originally, I had been ordered to provide support for an oberst scheduled to give a briefing to a high-ranking officer. When the oberst became ill with dysentery, I was ordered to provide the briefing alone in his stead. I was comfortable enough doing so as I was very familiar with the information and had given countless briefings during my career.

I was grateful for the opportunity and would not have passed on it. It had been several months since I had had the honor of being in the presence of Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel. Let alone having the chance to brief him on the current war situation.

I exited the vehicle, carrying the document satchel under my arm. I remained deep in thought as I walked up the driveway, my boots crunching on the gravel. While it was always a unique experience to be in Rommel's presence, I was unsure of what condition in which I would find him. He had sustained major head injuries in July during a strafing run by the Royal Airforce. His injuries had been serious enough to remove him from active service and he had been recovering from them for the last few months. Rommel's condition must have significantly improved, I reassured myself, if he was once again becoming involved in the war effort.

The door was opened before I reached it. Rommel's aide, Hauptmann Hermann Aldinger, stepped out to greet me warmly.

"Herr Major," he said, saluting me. "It has been quite a while since we have seen you."

I was pleased he saluted me with a traditional military salute and not with the bastardized "Heil Hitler."

Thank God Rommel's inner area of command had not been impacted by all the madness.

"Yes, it has been, Hauptmann Aldinger." I returned his salute. I stepped inside and removed my cover and ran my hand through my hair.

"I will notify the Generalfeldmarschall that you have arrived to brief him."

I stopped Aldinger before he could leave.

"How is the Generalfeldmarschall's health?" I kept my voice low, not wishing to be overheard by anyone else.

"Much better, Herr Major," Aldinger responded with a bright smile. "There is improvement each day, but it will still take some time before he is fully recovered and able to resume active service."

As I waited for Aldinger's return, I noticed there was little military staff present in the villa. I found it odd. If I was here to brief Rommel in preparation for him returning to active service, I would have expected a higher number of staff.

My thoughts were interrupted when Aldinger returned a few minutes later. "The Generalfeldmarschall will see you now in his office. You will be staying until the morning given the late hour, correct?"

I gave him a brief nod. "Yes. I will be departing shortly after dawn."

"Then I will see to your personal items while you are conducting your briefing. A room has already been prepared for you."

"Thank you, Hauptmann. My bag is in the boot."

I followed Aldinger to the far side of the villa. He lightly knocked on a heavy door and a familiar voice responded with a simple "Enter".

Rommel was seated behind a desk, casually dressed in a worn uniform as if he had just returned from the field a few moments before. He immediately stood and came around to greet me.

I sharply saluted him. "Herr Generalfeldmarschall."

"Dietrich, it's been a while. Too long." He returned my salute and then waved me to a chair near his desk. "Aldinger, notify the staff we are not to be disturbed for the next few hours."

I barely had a chance to take a sip of water when he motioned for me to commence the briefing.

Rommel sat in the chair next to me, leaning forward with eagerness. "You know me well enough, Dietrich. I'm not one to shoot the messenger. Present the facts frankly, with no varnish to hide the war's reality."

I removed the documents from the satchel and met his eyes. "And, you know me well enough, sir, I would never deceive you."

Over the next few hours, I briefed Rommel. He absorbed the data quickly, drawing it from me at a rapid pace. At times, I had difficulty keeping up with his brisk questions. Always, he seemed to be one step ahead of me. He interrupted me frequently, seeking a deeper understanding of the current war situation.

Rommel's ability to take complicated and divergent material and to place it into logical order had always amazed me. He had lost none of this ability, even after his accident. He immediately grasped the worsening situation, the continually collapsing fronts, the tightening circle which would eventually descend upon Berlin.

Finally satisfied, Rommel placed the documents and maps aside, indicating we were finished. He leaned back in his chair, the information already digested and filed.

Able to observe him closely during our meeting, Rommel appeared better than I had feared despite the severity of his head wounds. His eyes were bright with the familiar keen intellect and his stamina seemed better than mine. I was mentally and physically exhausted, feeling like I had just run a marathon.

"Difficult information, Dietrich. The situation will not be improving. It will only continue to deteriorate," was Rommel's only comment upon conclusion.

"I agree, I don't see how it could possibly improve," I responded. "Germany's resources of men and material are exhausted, as are the areas under our control."

"I agree with your assessment. It will be impossible to delay the inevitable beyond the spring."

Supper was announced shortly afterwards. We rose to leave.

"I don't believe you've met my wife, have you, Dietrich?" Rommel asked.

"No, I have not had the honor, Herr Generalfeldmarschall."

"Ah! Then let me have the pleasure of introducing her."

Rommel went to her side when we entered the dining room.

"Lucie, I would like to introduce Major Hans Dietrich. I have known the Major since his senior year at the Academy, well before the war."

"Frau Rommel." I clicked my heels together and kissed her hand. When I straightened, I could see the dark circles around her eyes and the lines about her mouth.

"Major Dietrich. My husband has mentioned you several times over the years. I am pleased you are able to join us for supper this evening. I look forward to becoming acquainted with you."

We enjoyed a simple meal and pleasant conversation, the unspoken rule being no direct discussion regarding the war. They told me about their young son who was serving in an anti-aircraft battery nearby and would be returning home soon on leave.

There was a quiet tension surrounding Frau Rommel, a brittle stress hidden just underneath the surface. I could not decide if it was inspired by concern for her husband, or for her son. Perhaps, it was due to some combination of worry about them both. Finally, I decided her unease was probably more due to her husband. Over the course of the meal, I had noticed her frequently reaching out to touch his arm, as if reassuring herself of his continued presence.

After supper, Rommel invited me to the drawing room for coffee.

Coffee. I could not remember the last time I had had real coffee. It must have been almost a year. Such an ordinary event in the distant past. Now it seemed so unique, even decadent. Coffee with cream, next to the fire put me in a relaxed state of mind and allowed me to easily converse with Rommel.

We had been idly chatting for several minutes when an idea crossed my mind. Boldly, I decided to pursue it.

"Herr Generalfeldmarschall, forgive me for asking, but may I draw your portrait? It would be an honor for me to add it to my portfolio."

Rommel was taken back by my request. He raised his eyebrows.

"Over the years, I have heard you were an artist, Dietrich. But why would you care to sketch me now?"

I gave him a wry grin. "I have had the honor of knowing you for over a decade. I served under you twice in France and extensively in Africa. You awarded me my Iron Cross with Oak Leaves for my service at Jufra. Yet, my sketchbook is empty of your presence. The question should be: Why have I not done so before?"

"I can hardly disagree with such an argument." With a wave he granted his permission. "Feel free do so."

It took me only a few minutes to retrieve my drawing materials and to prepare a charcoal. Without thinking, I reached for my cigarette pack. I always drew with a cigarette in my mouth. It helped me to relax. I pulled one out and looked at Rommel for permission.

"Smoke if you like, Dietrich. I remember you doing so previously," he said, amused.

"Ah, it is for its presence only, Herr Generalfeldmarschall. I actually never smoke while I am drawing."

Rommel sat well for his portrait. Even given the length of time, he did not become impatient or restless as some people do. Over the next hour, we reminisced about the Afrika Korps and France. Our light discussion relaxed Rommel, erasing the stress and lines from his face.

Normally, I did not take as long or place as much effort into a sketch as I did this one, but something drove me to do so. Urgently, I wanted to capture the man I had known so well and who had accomplished so much with so little in Africa. The one whose orders I had so loyally followed, and with whom I shared my views of civilized warfare.

"You've gone far since I first met you at the Academy, Dietrich."

I glanced up at him from my drawing. I gave him a grin, cigarette still dangling from my mouth. "I still have callouses on my hands from chopping wood and shoveling snow for Kommandant Schnass during my final winter at the Academy."

Rommel gave a short laugh. "Eberhardt had an eye for talent and he knew when and how to nurture it. He recognized your potential and didn't want it thrown away due to a thoughtless boyish prank. And," he added, "neither did I. You have proved yourself well worth the effort."

"And all this time, I had assumed Kommandant Schnass mentored me because my father paid for the lecture hall's restoration. Not to mention his other sizeable donations to the Academy," I said with a touch of sarcasm in my voice.

I had grown to love Schnass over the years. But, no matter how much gratitude I felt towards him for his guidance and for granting me a second chance, I also knew him to be an astute businessman. He never would have passed up the opportunity for a sizable donation during the early days of the Third Reich when funding had been scarce.

"You sell Eberhardt, and me, short," Rommel responded coolly. "I didn't think twice when the opportunity arose to recruit you for the desert. I had seen your service and was impressed. I knew you would serve well under my leadership style and in the fluid combat conditions I preferred."

I stopped sketching for a moment and looked up, surprised.

"Sir, I was told differently," I responded. "Oberst von Kleist informed me it was due to my father's intervention that I had been sent to Africa instead of the Eastern Front."

"I did receive a petition from your father, but I was never forced to take you on my staff, Dietrich. As much as I respect your father, I would have never allowed his personal request to prompt a poor decision.

"Your name was already on a short list of officers I wanted with me in Africa to clean up the mess the Italians had created. I knew what you were capable of achieving in difficult situations. You had served well in your previous postings during the pre-war years and in France. Your background was ideal for the North African campaign. The choice was not difficult for me to make."

Rommel paused a moment. "You earned my choice based strictly on your own abilities and accomplishments."

I gave Rommel a slight nod of contrition, brooding over what he had said. While he had acknowledged my military skills and abilities, it did not lessen the impact of my father's interference in my life and my military career. While Rommel had assured me my father held no influence over him, I still carried my self-doubts, unable to release them.

I pushed my thoughts aside and returned to my drawing. I wanted nothing to impact my creativity. We sat in silence for the final moments. The only sound was the crackling fire and the sound of the charcoal bringing Rommel to life on my pad.

I finally laid the sketchbook down, finished. My hand was tired and I rubbed it to remove the ache.

"Don't keep me in suspense, Dietrich," Rommel chided me, indicating the pad.

I usually had no qualms about showing my work, but this time I was self-conscious. I had never drawn a subject so famous and I was concerned if Rommel would agree with the likeness.

I handed Rommel the pad and he examined his portrait.

He grinned.

"I am no longer the same man you've captured in your portrait. You've taken off ten years of age and six years of war, from me, Dietrich."

"No, Herr Generalfeldmarschall. I drew the man I have known, the man I had the honor to serve and the man I shall always remember."

He gave a short laugh. "Ah, Dietrich! If life was so simple to turn back the clock. We would all return to our glory days. But I must compliment you: It is excellent."

In an unexpected move, he indicated for me to hand him the charcoal.

"May I?"

"Of course." At first, I had assumed he was going to add some age lines.

Instead, he unexpectedly proceeded to sign and date the portrait near the bottom.

"I am honored, Herr Generalfeldmarschall." I bowed my head.

"Now it is my turn to make a request of you, Dietrich."

I was taken aback. I couldn't imagine what he could possibly want from me. "What may I offer you?"

"I also remember you being a fine pianist. Would you play for us this evening? The radio reception is poor in this area. It would be nice to hear music again."

I stood and bowed. "Sir, it would be my pleasure to do so."

"Thank you, Dietrich. I will ask my wife to join us."

I went to the piano, lifted the cover, and gently touched a key. It was in tune and had a good feel to it. I loosened and stretched my fingers. I couldn't remember the last time I had played. Six months? A year? I had avoided playing due to the darkness of my moods. How could there even be a place in this ugly world for the beauty of music?

Still, I never would have considered refusing his request.

Frau Rommel soon joined us. I seated myself at the piano. "Frau Rommel, Herr Generalfeldmarschall, is there a particular piece you would care for me to play?"

Rommel gazed at his wife with a slight smile. "Lucie? You choose, darling."

She returned his smile and reached for his hand. "Herr Dietrich, surprise us."

It was a moment before I made my decision. The piece I had chosen was a plaintive waltz, but it had always been one of my favorite pieces of music. I couldn't even remember the name of it or of its composer. Whoever he was, his talent was evident in the simple melody and rich undertones. It never failed to move me, whether I played it or heard it.

As was my custom, I closed my eyes as I began playing, to better feel and experience the music. I was perhaps a quarter of the way through the piece when I was distracted by a faint sound. I slightly opened my eyes.

What I saw caused me to open them fully.

I nearly missed a note.

Rommel and his wife were waltzing. He was looking lovingly into her eyes and gaze returned his affection. The years had melted from both their faces and bodies. He could have been a young cadet transported back to the First World War, and she, his young bride.

I was entranced by the obvious love they held for one another.

I was witnessing a special moment between a loving couple. Selfishly, I did not want it to end. When I neared the end of the waltz, I began it to play it again, softening my hands and slowing the tempo. After the repeat, I gently brought it to a close

When they stopped dancing, Rommel gently kissed his wife. "I love you," he whispered to her.

I found myself coloring. For a moment, it had seemed as though they had forgotten my presence.

Rommel finally spoke. "Thank you, Dietrich. I wanted to dance with my wife for a final time."

Frau Rommel's back was to me, so she did not see the immediate look I gave her husband. My eyes locked with his and a dark hand seized me from inside.

And then, I knew what he had known for days, or possibly, weeks.

I was stunned, and left speechless. What could I possibly say?

When I had arrived earlier in the afternoon, I had noticed the black automobiles which had been discreetly parked around the remote, inconsequential village. What business could they have in Herrlingen? I had naively believed perhaps they were here to protect Rommel. Now, I understood.

Rommel was a marked man who would be dead shortly.

It was Rommel who finally ended the silence. "It is late, Dietrich. My wife and I will be retiring for the evening. Thank you again."

I was so overcome by my emotions, I barely remembered to stand when they left and I was completely unable to even stammer a good night. I stood, alone and frozen, the powerful image of the two of them dancing haunting the room.

I went over to where I had left my drawing pad. I looked at Rommel's portrait, my fingers barely tracing his signature.

I was suddenly seized with the obsession of capturing another moment. Rarely had I been inspired with such passion towards a piece, but I dedicated every bit of my artistic talent to it. I spent almost the next two hours on it before I knew it was finished.

With a smile, I took one final look at it. It was easily the best work in my portfolio, even better than the portrait I had completed of Rommel.

I continued to stare at the beauty and intimacy I had captured. But, then my satisfaction began to turn foul within me. How could I capture brightness amid so much darkness which had invaded Germany's soul? How was I able to capture any beauty in the world for there was none remaining? It was the same negative emotion I had experienced in France, when I had drawn the village church destroyed by Nazi aggression.

A wave of despair rose within me. It was not an unfamiliar feeling. As the war ground to a close, my bouts of depression had markedly increased, no doubt exasperated by the bouts of heavy drinking I indulged in to kill my pain.

I looked down at the charcoal I still held in my hand. Slowly and deliberately, I broke it in half, then into fourths before throwing it into the fire. The pieces were rapidly consumed by the flames as anger consumed me.

I wanted to destroy anything having to do with my art. I gathered up the remainder of my supplies and threw them into the fire. I seized the sketchbook, poised to hurl it after them.

At the last second, I hesitated.

I stood there for several moments, wrestling with my emotions.

In the end, as much as I wanted, I could not destroy the art I had created over the course of several years. No, it needed to be my witness. After the war ended, I would need something to prove a part of me had remained sane even while I had supported the madness.

Abruptly, I closed the pad and shoved it under my arm. I left the room and the memories which it contained.

I said my final good bye to Rommel shortly after dawn.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Herr Generalfeldmarschall. It was an honor to spend the evening with you and your wife. I shall remember it always." I saluted him and held it longer than necessary, giving him the honor he so richly deserved.

He returned my salute with the same sharpness. The fire still burned behind those light blue eyes.

"Good bye, Dietrich. Until next time."

I turned and left, unable to say anything more.

We both knew there would not be a next time.

True to my premonition, I never saw Rommel again. Nineteen days later, his death was officially announced on the radio.

I remember the moment vividly.

Combat had been especially fierce the prior week and the Wehrmacht had taken heavy casualties. My unit had been blissfully ordered to the rear lines. We expected to stand down to recover and rest for several days.

The respite was short lived.

I was ordered to the command center soon after our arrival. I received fresh orders which would return us to combat in two days. I attempted to protest, but was silenced. All units, especially experienced ones, were desperately needed to shore up the front. We could not be spared from crucial combat moments for any length of time.

As I had wearily left the makeshift headquarters, a young Leutnant ran after me.

"Major Dietrich!" he called. "You once reported up to Generalfeldmarschall Rommel, didn't you? You knew him?"

"I would hardly say that I knew him, but yes, I did report to him on several occasions." Too tired and irritable to deal with him, I turned to leave. The two days' respite would pass quickly enough. I wanted to waste none of it fielding mindless questions from a curious junior officer.

He stared at me, his expression odd. "Why, his death was announced over the radio just a few minutes ago, Herr Major!"

I whirled around my exhaustion gone.

"What?" I asked.

But, as much as I wished to disbelieve him, I knew it was true.

"The Generalfeldmarschall is dead. I suppose he must have succumbed to the head wounds he received in France."

"You are positive the news is true?" I pressed. Rommel had almost recovered when I had last seen him. His death would be unexpected. But then I recalled my final evening with Rommel. Again, I realized I already knew the answer to my question.

"Well, it was on the radio, so I would guess it was true. There is going to be a big state funeral and-"

I silenced him with a weary shake of my head.

An immense sense of sadness and loss engulfed me. Rommel had been a mentor to me.

His death was not due to his injuries. No, the Reich was responsible for his death.

But why? What purpose would it serve? Rommel was no longer in Hitler's favor, but to have him killed? Other generals had fallen even further from grace and they were still actively serving or quietly been forced to retire.

Vaguely, I could hear the leutnant rapidly asking me several questions, wanting to know details about Rommel.

"What was he like? Did he really. . ."

I glared at the Leutnant, unable and unwilling to provide him with any answers. Slowly, I walked away. The leutnant followed me for a short distance before losing interest.

Alone, I trudged to the commandeered school which was being used as our temporary quarters.

I poured a brandy and lit a cigarette before sinking down onto my narrow cot. I stared out the cracked window into nothing. My drink remained untouched and the cigarette burned down between my fingers, unsmoked.

I replayed in my mind the interactions I had had with Rommel over the years. The earliest dated back to the winter of 1934.

I closed my eyes. I could see him as a rising officer, heavily influenced from what he had experienced during the previous world war. I remembered my first meeting with him, us sharing a strudel and coffee during my senior year at the academy. There was the service with him before the war during the German military buildup. Then, twice more in France, after it first fell and then again before the Allies made their move to reclaim it.

But, my mind lingered the longest on Africa, where he had achieved his greatest successes. I could see him in the tan tropical issue, the hand knitted scarf at his throat to provide warmth against the astonishingly cold of the early mornings and late evenings. I recalled the keen intellect with which he issued his orders as he fought for control of a barren land. All the while, his eyes bright with the possibility of what could be achieved even with so little men and resources.

Such a great man, such a wonderful man, such a powerful man. . .

And, I would never be in his presence again.

I shoved my memories aside. They belonged in the past, dead along with the man who had inspired them. Nothing existed behind me, and likely nothing more existed for me ahead. More and more, my thoughts were clouded by death.

I glanced over to the corner. In the bottom of my footlocker was my drawing pad, deliberately hidden from my sight. I shook my head, remembering my recent drawings. I wanted to look at Rommel's signed portrait and my rendering of him dancing with his wife, but the emotional anguish would have been too raw, too much.

I downed the brandy in a single take and threw aside the cigarette which had turned to ash. I took out a sheet of writing paper. I wrote to Frau Rommel, expressing my condolences. Rommel's passing was a loss to everyone whose lives he had touched, but her loss would remain unequaled.

I was surprised to receive a response from her several weeks later. Frau Rommel must have received hundreds, if not thousands, of cards and letters from people sending their regards. I was only one of many relatively low ranking officers who had reported to her husband throughout the years. I was honored for her to have remembered me during such a tumultuous time.

Again, she thanked me for playing the waltz for them. Frau Rommel also shared how she would always remember the final dance she had enjoyed with her husband.

For the remainder of my life, I would always privately refer to the waltz I had played on that bittersweet evening as the "Rommel Waltz". Occasionally, at various functions and events, I would hear it. Always, I would listen to it intently and with despondence, remembering the final evening I spent with Rommel and his wife.

I myself only rarely played it. And then, only when alone. Unique, it never failed to bring forth a deep emotional and melancholy response from within me. I wanted no one to witness the intense emotions.

However, while there was pain there, hidden within those dark chords were also rays of courage and a promise waiting to reemerge, like the sun reappearing after the darkest hour of a devastating storm.


	4. 1944 - 8 Dezember

Several months had passed. I had not received any replies to the increasingly anxious and concerned letters I had written to Agathe. Nearly every day, I had written to her, attempting to reach out across the void. Often, I wondered where my letters went. Did they end up in a dead letter place? Or, had they been delivered to someone who perversely enjoyed reading the missives of an increasingly desperate man?

I was unable and unwilling to accept the obvious that something had happened to her and our child. If only one of my letters would receive a response from Agathe! At least then I would know the truth.

The last letter I had received from her was in March. She had informed me that our baby was due to be born any day.

Since then. . .

Nothing.

Over time, my letters became more and more infrequent. Eventually, I had ceased writing to her. The task had become cruel in its uselessness. Even hope couldn't bring me to put pen to paper.

As time passed, it became critical for me to receive confirmation, any type of closure, regarding their fate.

I obtained a five-day furlough which would enable me to search for Agathe. It was scarcely sufficient time to reach Hamburg and return, but it was all I could have approved.

My commanding oberst was of the opinion I was wasting my time and he had bluntly told me so.

"Germany is being surrounded and destroyed by the Allies. The American and British bombings are devastating the major cities from the air. On the ground, their armies are approaching from the west. The Bolshevik pigs are pillaging and destroying from the east, brutalizing any woman they find. There is little remaining of what we knew, Dietrich."

I said nothing, ignoring a reality I did not want to confront.

"And yet, you still want to pursue your search for a woman who is not even your wife. Do you honestly expect to find her among ruins of the Reich? It will be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Anyone who has the means and ability has already fled somewhere for safety. All of us are in the same situation, Dietrich. We are all concerned about our loved ones. I empathize with you, but your duty remains here at the front."

I remained steadfast, my jaw set.

The oberst studied my face before he gave a sigh, his shoulders noticeably sagging.

"Alright, Dietrich. I will grant you five days in which to accomplish your folly. You've served me well. I'll recognize your loyalty for a final time."

Grateful for what I could get, I thanked him.

The oberst held up a hand to silence me. "However, you will be considered absent without leave if you have not returned within the allotted time. You are already aware of how the SS views deserters, especially those who are officers. Punishment will be immediate and on the spot."

"Thank you, Sir, for granting me the opportunity to pursue my 'folly'," I replied. "On my honor, I will return within the time you have graciously granted me." I turned to leave.

The oberst called after me.

"Dietrich?"

"Sir?"

"You might not like what you find," he warned ominously.

Arriving in Hamburg had been an accomplishment in itself. Most of the rail lines throughout Germany had been destroyed or heavily damaged. No matter how quickly the lines were repaired, the Allies just as quickly bombed them again.

I knew the home front situation was ruinous, but I was unprepared for the vast breath of the destruction.

It was indescribable.

Surely, it could not possibly become any worse.

But, I knew it would be before the war inevitably ended.

I didn't know who deserved my cold fury more: The Allies who carried out the deeds, or Hitler, who had so many years before set the inevitability into motion.

Unending scenes of bombed out buildings had rolled by the windows of the train. Unable to comprehend the devastation any longer, I finally had to look away. While I had witnessed and even contributed to the destruction wrought by German troops in occupied zones, this was different.

It was so very personal when it was your own country's devastation.

I forced myself to again look at the remains, committing it to memory, driving myself to remembrance. I vowed to never again to see Germany in this condition. After this war ended, I would do whatever possible to prevent such waste and destruction from returning to her borders.

Eventually, the tracks became blocked. The train could run no farther and I was forced to walk the final few kilometers to Agathe's apartment. Massive piles of rubble covered the walkways, and in several places, I chose to walk in the street. It was safer. Little could be done regarding the debris. Both the labor and equipment required to haul it away were almost non-existent, let alone finding a place to put it. The city had no other choice except to leave it where it lay as yet another memorial to the toll the war had taken on a once proud country.

With a cold dread, I turned down Agathe's street. Where once had been houses, was now marked by nothing more than mounds of debris. Only a few houses were still standing. Amid the wreckage were scorched chairs, twisted bedframes and damaged stoves, hinting at the lives people had once enjoyed here. Occasionally, the sickeningly sweet smell of human decay reached me. After five years of combat, I was too familiar with the stench to mistake it.

I came to a stop. It was not necessary for me to confirm the address. I had memorized it months before.

I recalled the oberst's warning as I stared at the devastation. Dread, fear and sorrow filled me as the sight emptied me of all hope.

I knew now why I had not received any responses from Agathe.

There was absolutely nothing left standing of her last known address.

My mind was racing, but I was unable to process the reality of it as I railed against the unmistakable evidence in front of me.

It was not supposed to be this way! The man going off to war was the one who should be killed. Not the woman and child remaining at home, loyally waiting for his return.

I would not, I could not, accept the reality of the situation. It could not be true. I must prove the reality wrong.

There was a small house located nearby. Miraculously, it remained relatively intact, with only the rear of the structure damaged. Perhaps the residents could provide me with some, or any, information about Agathe?

Picking my way through the ruble, I stumbled more than a few times as I made my way to the house.

I knocked and a middle-aged woman soon opened the door.

She gasped, her hands flying up to her face. With a look of surprise and fright, the woman's eyes looked over my uniform before returning to my face.

I immediately removed my cover. "Forgive me for startling you, Madam."

"What do you want?" the woman asked in a voice which matched her expression.

"Please do not be frightened. I mean to cause you no difficulty." I spoke calmly and softly, wanting to put her at ease. "I am seeking a woman who lived in the apartment building next to your house."

She said nothing, clutching her sweater tighter, as she retreated from the doorway.

I pulled a small photograph of Agathe from my breast pocket. "Here is a photograph of her," I said. "Have you seen her?"

It was the only picture I possessed of Agathe. How I wished I had more!

The woman shook her head. She retreated farther, her hand on the door as if to close it in my face.

I realized that the woman had misunderstood my intentions.

"I am not from the government or here on police business. The woman is not in any trouble. My search for her is a personal one."

The woman relaxed slightly, interested, but I could tell she remained suspicious.

"And you are Frau . . .Frau . . .?" I asked, trying to be friendly and open a dialogue.

"Haber," she stammered.

I gave her a warm smile and a slight bow. "Frau Haber. I am Major Hans Dietrich."

"Dietrich?" she repeated, with a start, almost as if she had heard my name before. I dismissed her reaction. My surname was not uncommon.

"Yes," I confirmed.

I stood there watching her internal struggle. Right when I thought she would shut the door on me, she relented.

Frau Haber opened the door wider. "Won't you come in, Major?"

"Thank you, Frau Haber."

I followed her into a small sitting room. The inside was barely warmer than the outside. The rear half of the house was boarded up due to damage caused from a bombing. I could see daylight entering through gaps along with the cold. However, she was lucky, to possess a house which was still even remotely standing. The bombings and fleeing refugees had created a high rate of homelessness in the city and surrounding areas. Any structure with anything close to four walls was a prize worth possessing.

"May I offer you some water, Major? I apologize it is not something more, but I have little these days."

"Water would be fine, Madam."

She returned in a few minutes.

"Thank you, Frau Haber," I said. I took a sip of the water.

We sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, which she finally broke.

"How can I assist you, Major Dietrich? You mentioned you were searching for the woman in the photograph."

"Yes, I am. The woman's name is Fraulein Agathe von Stein. The last address I have for her is the apartment building which stood nearby."

Frau Haber's posture was still tight and defensive, still suspicious of my reasons for questioning her.

"Major, given the war situation, the city has been in flux for the last few years. People are coming and going, never really settling down. The apartments were no different. There were several women who occupied the building in the last few years. Most of them stayed only briefly. I met very few of them."

My disappointment was growing, but still, I wanted to continue pursuing this remote chance. Frau Haber surprised me by asking several questions of her own.

"Forgive me for asking, Major, but why are you seeking Fraulein von Stein? What is your relationship to her? Are you her brother?"

While Agathe and I were both tall and dark haired, our affection towards one another would never have been characterized as that between siblings. "Fraulein von Stein is my fiancée," I explained.

Frau Haber noticeably softened at my explanation. She returned my smile.

I took advantage of the opening.

"Fraulein von Stein was in her late twenties, athletic, a tall woman, with dark hair. She had been working as a nurse at the Wehrmacht hospital."

A look of recognition crossed her face.

"Ah, yes! Now I remember the young woman! Although I didn't know her name at the time. The neighborhood considered itself fortunate to have a medical person living within it. With the constant bombings and few doctors available, we're on our own when there is an emergency."

I nodded, encouraged by her willingness to share.

Frau Haber paused for a moment, thinking.

"If I remember correctly, she was living with another woman, who was also dark haired. At first, we assumed they were sisters, they looked so much alike."

My pulse started to increase. One of the two women must have been Agathe. "The woman I'm seeking was pregnant. She would have delivered the child around the beginning of March 1944." I leaned forward in anticipation, awaiting her reply.

"Pregnant?" she repeated. Frau Haber's face hardened and she tilted her chin after placing the marital situation in context. "Oh, dear!"

I cared not in the slightest for her opinion about an unwed mother, or about my obvious relationship to that situation. I only cared for the information she could provide.

"Frau Haber, do you know where the woman and the child are currently living?"

Her only response was to stare at me.

"When was the apartment bombed? Was it before or after March?" I asked, an unintentional sharpness in my voice. I was unused to being denied answers and my instinct was telling me Frau Haber retained more information than she was sharing.

"You want to know the exact day? Does it matter?" she asked, her eyes down, withdrawing even further.

"Yes, it does matter. It will assist me knowing their whereabouts on a specific date."

"Well, if you must know it was March 15th of last year."

The date shocked me. It was when I had received Agathe's final letter informing me of her pregnancy.

"How can you be so certain of the date?" I pressed her.

"Because my sister was here visiting me on that day," she explained. "We were fortunate to be on the other side of the city when the alarms went off. It was a particularly heavy raid, one lasting for several hours. With all the destruction and fires, it took us almost a day to return here. I was one of the lucky ones to have at least half a house still left standing."

"And?" I prompted, not willing to let her stop when we were actually getting to something which might be of use to me.

Frau Haber had a handkerchief in her hands, twisting it into knots. "The scene was very chaotic. We joined in the hunt for survivors, but night had already fallen. It was too late. So many did not make it."

I leaned forward. "Were they taken to the hospital? Do you know if they survived?" I caught my breath waiting for her to answer.

"I'm so, so sorry, Major, but I'm unable to tell you much. Many of those. . ." she paused, trying to find the least offensive words, "who did not make it had already been removed by the time we arrived."

I started to ask her more questions when she interrupted me.

"I really can't tell you something that I don't know. I'm unable to provide you any additional information. I know the situation is bad at the front, but you soldiers can't possibly understand the situation what it is like here," the Frau countered. "The lack of food, constant bombings . . . We face death, too, you know!"

I did understand how bad the war situation was, more so than she could ever imagine. Me just being there searching for Agathe should have been proof enough. While I was empathetic towards her and all civilians the war had impacted, my loss forced me to be selfish.

"What of the other woman? Did she survive?" I pressed.

My question caught her off-guard. Frau Haber looked up at me. A puzzled look crossed her tear-stained face. "I hadn't thought about her. She normally worked during the day so I assumed she was away. Anyway, there was nothing for her to return to. I never saw her again."

"And the bodies? Where were they taken?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

"I don't know, I don't know," she kept repeating. "I don't know what the authorities did with them. I keep telling you. We didn't arrive until hours afterwards. The bodies were already gone. You would need to speak with the Constable's office, if it is even still standing. Someone there might be able to provide you with some scrap of information you so desperately desire."

Desperation compelled my questioning. "Do you know if she delivered the child? Perhaps you heard it crying?"

"Major, I only spoke with her a few times in passing. I didn't even know she was pregnant until you informed me. It was winter and she probably would have been wearing a heavy coat which would have hid her condition."

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I had learned little. The only information I had received was the confirmation that Agathe had indeed lived at the apartment house. I wanted to do something, anything. But, there was nothing I could do.

Frau Haber interrupted my thoughts.

"Major, as difficult as it is for me to suggest, has it crossed your mind perhaps your fiancée does not want to be found? It would explain her silence after so much time has passed. While you want to find her, she might prefer to remain hidden. Many people are using the chaos of the war to their advantage, beginning a new life under an assumed identity."

"Not Agathe," I countered. "I know her better."

"But, how well do we really know anyone? She was pregnant and not married, probably embarrassed. She might have thought you had abandoned her due to her condition. Maybe she placed the baby in an orphanage. Perhaps she gave the baby away to a family who had no children or to one which had lost their own due to the war? A family who could properly raise the child."

"Agathe would have known I never would have left her due to her pregnancy. We were already engaged when she became pregnant. Besides, either one of our families would have willingly raised the child 'properly'."

In the end, I wasn't sure if I was trying to convince the Frau, or myself, of my words.

She stood, indicating the meeting was over. "I'm sorry, Major Dietrich, but I have nothing left to offer you."

I would receive no additional information from Frau Haber, not that I had learned much from her.

"Thank you, Frau Haber for your time," I said, also standing. "I will speak with the local constable's office as you suggested. I will see myself out."

I started to leave when I noticed a picture of a young man in uniform on the sideboard.

"Your son?" I asked.

She shook her head, tears forming in her eyes. I knew I had inadvertently opened a raw wound which would never heal for the family.

"No, my nephew. He fell back in 1943 on the eastern front. It has been a very difficult time for my sister Helga and her husband. He was their only child." She put her head in her hands and began to cry.

"I am sorry for your, and your sister's, loss," I managed to say, still trying to cope with my own. "You must have been a comfort to her during this difficult time."

"I've tried, but how can one provide comfort over the loss of a son? Unfortunately, I don't see her much. She lives in Weidach with her husband on a small farm. A worldly man like yourself has probably never heard of such a small place."

"Weidach?" I said warmly. "Actually, I am familiar with the village. I am originally from outside of Coburg. Weidach is nearby. I have visited it frequently."

It took Frau Haber a few seconds to find her voice. "What a coincidence, Major," she said with a tight smile. "Who would have known you lived so close to my sister?" She opened the door for me and indicated up the street. "The constable's office is four blocks up, on the left corner."


	5. 1944 – 8 Dezember (zweiter teil)

I had only walked a few blocks before the air raid sirens began sounding their shrill warning. People soon began pouring out of the remaining buildings, moving swiftly in one direction. I followed them, assuming they were making their way to the nearest shelter.

I did not make it to the shelter in time. The heavy doors were shut before I could enter. Pounding on the doors, I screamed for them to be opened. It was to no avail. Either I could not be heard from the inside or the people did not want to risk their lives by reopening the doors for me. I could not blame them for either.

Despite their high altitude, I could hear the rumble of the lumbering bombers approaching. Faintly, the chatter of the German anti-aircraft guns answered as they began their futile attempt to stop them. There was little else to confront the bombers. The Luftwaffe barely existed. They could not even engage, let alone stop, the bombers.

The first bombs began to fall in the distance. The long whistle of their drops was followed by their deadly explosions. It was critical for me to find shelter. I would never survive out in the open.

I returned to the street. I spotted a half-destroyed building at the end of the block. I ran to it. A partially open door led downwards and I squeezed through the narrow opening. In the dim light, the room appeared to be at most a basement. At the least, it was a coal cellar. It had a hard-packed earthen floor and the walls appeared to be solid. I had little choice but to take my chances in it.

With effort, I managed to close the heavy door plunging me into complete darkness.

Feeling along the walls, I made my way down the stairs. I could hear the scurry of paws. Lovely. obviously I would be sharing my shelter with rodents. Yes, all of us rats were on this sinking ship together.

I felt sympathy for the animals. At least I understood what was happening. They, unfamiliar with the murderous madness of man against man, did not. The loud explosions and reverberations must have been terrifying for the poor creatures.

The air was stale in the darkness. Suddenly, I craved a cigarette to calm me. Cautiously, I sniffed. Smelling no gas, I decided to take the chance.

The Nazi officials said cigarettes could kill you. I grinned. Well, I would find out in a few seconds if it was true. I reached into my breast pocket and took out my cigarettes and lighter. I shook out a cigarette and flicked open my lighter.

I laughed out loud when nothing happened. I lit the cigarette and took a deep drag on it. By the light of the flickering flame, I looked around my shelter for the unforeseeable future. The room was empty of any coal or rubbish. But then, any coal and anything else of use would have been scavenged months before. Even debris was valuable to those who had nothing else. It was hardly a surprise it had been picked clean, and likely long before I had made my arrival.

I closed the lighter and proceeded to sit down on the hard floor with my back against the wall.

I waited.

I could feel the impact of the falling bombs and the subsequent explosions which vibrated and moved even the earth and concrete. Calmly, I smoked, remembering the first time I had been in an artillery barrage. It was in the early days of the war. I had been fighting in France.

The seasoned enlisted soldiers from the First World War had sensed my uneasiness. They had laughed at it. This is nothing, they had reassured me as the shells came whistling in to explode near us. Wait until you are hunkered down into a narrow trench and the hell lasts around the clock for days forcing you to piss and shit where you sleep. Then, you will really know what it is to experience a true barrage.

I drew heavily on my cigarette, the tip glowing red in the darkness.

I had weathered that barrage and many since then.

Shelling, combat and death now all seemed too normal. It was the idea of peace which was abnormal. Wars have a way of upending one's perception. What would I possibly do after the war?

I stubbed out my cigarette and lit a new one. Sitting there in the darkness, I continued to think.

It was ironic. If my shelter took a direct hit, I would be killed instantly. Little, if anything, would be left of me. Nothing at all like dying in combat, on a field of honor, where my remains could be collected and interred. At least then, my family could visit my grave, certain of where and how death had taken me. No, my unexplained disappearance would likely be considered desertion, or given the status of missing in action. Such was the fate of the unknown.

As I considered my own potential demise, my mind kept returning to Agathe. After casually discarding so many women over the years, I had found her. She had been the right woman for me. I had even planned our future, for us to immigrate to Australia after the war where we could begin a new life.

I shook my head in sadness. Cruelly snatched from me, now instead of being a major part of my future, Agathe would be yet another piece of the prior life which I was being forced to leave behind.

Smoking relaxed me and the bombing had a surprisingly lulling effect. I found myself dozing off. A particularly loud explosion nearby stirred me momentarily, but then I returned to my dozing. I must have well and truly fallen asleep. The next thing I knew, I could feel the quiet. I had slept peacefully through the din, but it was the silence which had awoken me.

Soon afterwards, the all clear siren being given.

Stiffly, I stood, and brushed off my uniform. Grateful to have survived, I made my way up the stairs to the exit.

The building had settled and I struggled to open the door. I put my shoulder to it and managed to shove it open. I staggered for a few steps, climbing over the fallen rubble. Gratefully, I inhaled the fresh air though it was still thick with dust and the smell of smoke.

Night had fallen, but one would never know it by the brightness surrounding me.

It was hell as if imagined by a psychopath.

In over five years of war, I had never seen anything to match it.

I stood in what remained of the street, overwhelmed by the annihilation surrounding me. I couldn't help but to cross myself at what I was witnessing.

The sky was a bright orange red, lit by the tongues of flame from the massive fires. Even at a distance, I could feel the heat licking against my face. The wind had kicked up and ashes were falling like warm snowflakes. The fires emitted a loud roar, I could still hear the sounds of human misery: People groaning under the rubble, the frantic screams of people being consumed by the flames, and the cries of anguish from those desperate to save the ones they loved.

People began appearing around me, emerging from where they had taken refuge. First a few, and then more and more joined them. As if in a trance, I stood unmoving, as they began rushing past me and up the street.

Someone ran into me hard, knocking me to my knees.

The blow at least forced me to emerge from my stupor.

I realized the survivors were running towards the shelter which had earlier refused me entry. I joined the crowd, fearing what had caused such urgency.

There was nothing left of the shelter. It must have taken a direct hit from a large bomb. Only a deep crater existed where it had once stood.

It would have been impossible for anyone to have survived. No human remains could be seen, not even crudely severed disembodied parts. Nothing could be done here. The would-be rescuers turned and left to assist others who still had the opportunity to live.

Alone, I stared into the crater. Is this what had happened to Agathe and our child? Nothing bodily left of them on this Earth? Nothing left to be buried, even in an unmarked mass grave? How could there possibly be a God in heaven to allow such destruction and despair upon his creations? Hadn't Germany already suffered enough for its sins?

I fought my way back through the chaos to where Frau Haber's house had once stood. It was also gone. It was now indistinguishable from any of the other rubble on the street.

I surveyed the crowd to see if I could spot Frau Haber. I did not see her. It was impossible for me to know if she had perished inside her house, or within the destroyed shelter, or if she had made it to safety.

I began questioning anyone on the street. Some gave me a puzzled look while others didn't even bother to hear my question. Most just shook their heads. No one knew anything about her.

I spotted an elderly fireman and forcibly stopped him.

"I'm looking for a Frau Haber. She lived in the house which previously stood over there." I gestured towards the smoking lot. "Do you know if she made it to safety?" I desperately asked. "It is critical for me to find her."

His look of surprise soon gave way to anger.

"Look, Major. It is crucial we find anyone and everyone. Right now, no one has a name. Chances are she didn't make it. If you want to make yourself useful, come with me and start helping those who _are_ alive. We could use a young able-bodied man such as yourself."

I took one final look at the devastation before leaving with the fireman. I could only pray Frau Haber had been fortunate enough to reach the safety of a different shelter.

There was a rescue party laboring nearby. I was put to work. I toiled alongside women, elderly men and young children, all of us digging painfully through the rubble and debris by hand driven by the hope of saving just one person.

I lost track of time. I must have worked for hours searching for survivors. We were successful in pulling out several people who were still alive, their clothes in tatters and their bodies covered in dirt. Surprisingly, many could walk away on their own.

Each success was met with a cheer, a small celebration of life, before we went back to our grim task.

We also found the dead. Silently, we placed them aside, along with our emotions.

Finally, there was nothing more to be done. I was released, covered in dirt and soot, my hands bloodied and torn. Exhausted, I made my way to the constable's office Frau Haber had indicated, but it was on fire. Any available records had gone up in flames.

Now both my leads had vanished, along with Agathe and our baby.

I walked for hours until I could catch a train on operable tracks. There was no reason for me to remain in Hamburg any longer. I returned to the front where at least I knew what was awaiting me.


	6. 1945 - 26 Januar

Germany's borders had been breached. Combat would only intensify as the Reich became more and more desperate to survive. It had become impossible to staunch the flow of the invaders or even to hold them for more than a few days at a time. Retreat was the Wehrmacht's only option for survival. We had bled and died for each centimeter we relinquished. Soon, as the centimeters had given way to meters and kilometers, the dying had increased exponentially.

I stared at the open crate without emotion.

It had been difficult making my decision. It had even more difficult obtaining the wooden crate and packing materials needed to enact my resolution. I shook my head. The price for the materials had been keen, but I believed it had become necessary.

The moment had arrived for me to forfeit my personal belongings, forwarding anything of emotional or tangible value to safety. My possessions had been a lifeline to sanity during the war. Now they had become a liability I could no longer afford to maintain. It was best to be done with them so they would not become a distraction as the war came to its violent close.

I did not want my possessions falling into the hands of the enemy if I should be killed. Or, taken from me as war souvenirs by the enemy if I should be captured. In a prisoner-of-war camp, it would be useless to try and keep personal possessions. An officer would not be immune from an Allied soldier appropriating something which caught his fancy. I abhorred souvenir hunters from either side, considering them to be barbaric and without honor.

Interesting. I had settled on death before contemplating capture. I supposed it was the more realistic of the two outcomes.

I had given serious thought as to whom I should send my belongings. My father would have been the logical choice, but I had dismissed him. I still wanted no contact with him. Especially not when the war was so close to ending. He would view my action as weak, the admission of defeat before it was a reality. No, I thought sarcastically, I should do nothing which would bring any remote shame upon the Dietrich family. Even if no outsiders would learn of my shame.

I had seriously considered sending them to Schnass, who now resided with my family. He would be clinical in his execution, acting without emotion or judgment, stoic in the event of my death. The intimate details of my personal life contained within the crate would remain confidential. Schnass' health, though, was in decline. He had been in poor condition since suffering a stroke shortly before the war. While I believed he would be willing to handle the task, I did not feel he was up to it.

I never considered my mother. It was not the undertaking for any woman, let alone a soldier's mother. She would have immediately understood the significance of the crate and crumpled, emotionally and physically. She had lost one son at his birth. The idea of losing her remaining son would be overwhelming.

Liesl, my younger sister, was perhaps the toughest member of the family. But again, I did not believe it was a task which should be handled by a woman. Liesl had already experienced enough death due to the war. Death had visited Liesl when her fiancée, Ellery, was killed in North Africa while serving with me. In her desperation and grief, she had made me promise her I would return from the war. I had given her my promise, hoping to provide some comfort. It was a promise I had not the power nor the right to give.

I dismissed distant family members whom I barely knew, or friends whom I had no idea if they were even alive or dead. I knew several people residing in neutral territories, but I seriously doubted a parcel from Nazi Germany would arrive at its intended destination untouched.

I had discounted nearly everyone in only a few seconds.

Then it became obvious as to who I should choose. Andreas Kohl, the stable master at my parent's estate, was the logical choice. I trusted Kohl to follow my wishes and to do what was right. Yes, Kohl was the correct person. More of a family member than a servant, he had served with my father during the First World War before returning to work at the Academy. He had left the Academy soon after I graduated, accepting a position on my parent's estate. While Kohl was not a young man, I was more at ease knowing he was with my family to assist them during my extended absences.

Kohl was like as an uncle to me. Over the years, he and I had many open and frank conversations regarding anything and everything. No matter the subject, he had listened without judgement and he had dispensed excellent common sense advice.

I knew Kohl would hold unto my belongings until I sent for them. Or, if I did not return, I trusted him to do with them as I had requested. I had written a letter detailing my instructions, sealing the note in an envelope with "Open in case of my Death" written across it. I would include it in the crate.

I instructed Kohl to give my medals to my father. They would join my father's and grandfather's awards, the final military medals earned by a Dietrich. My straight-razor had belonged to my paternal grandfather, who had taken it with him on military campaigns. I requested it also to be returned to my father.

My mother, a talented artist herself, was to receive my sketch book. Since I was a child, she had always encouraged the expression of my artistic side, whether it be through music or art. She had frequently commented on how I was a true Renaissance man and how she believed I would have been a successful artist if I had not chosen the military for my career. I also gave her my Georgia O'Keefe collection, safely hidden within the walls of my room. My mother was the only one to understand my fascination with the artist. We had had several lively discussions regarding her works. My mother appreciated their beauty. I knew she would keep them safe.

The priceless Benghazi photograph and Spanish postcard were for Liesl. I had shown no one the photograph since it had been taken in 1934. It had never faded, still as sharp as when it had been taken. Liesl would not know of its true significance, only that the three other men in the photograph were dead, including Ellery. I had wanted to send it to Liesl when I had witnessed Ellery's first death, but I had been unable to part with it.

And for the postcard? I wanted Liesl to have it. Blank except for my name and Coburg address, she would ponder about the women who had sent it to me. Liesl would sense there was something more than what the simple thin cardboard suggested. The only one besides myself who knew of its meaning was the sender, Adele. I had assisted Adele and her Jewish family in successfully escaping from France to the safety of Spain after Paris had fallen. The simple postcard had been Adele's way of notifying me they were safe.

I willed my extensive military journals to Kohl. The journals were a record of my military career, dating back prior to the war. I had written in them almost nightly and they detailed extensively all the campaigns in which I had fought. They were without bias, and at times, contained grudging admiration for the enemy. I believed Kohl would find them interesting. Especially the long entries where I expressed my anger and frustrations against Sergeant Sam Troy and the Rat Patrol.

My letters were to be burned in the event I did not survive. They were personal, primarily from women. I believed it best for them to be destroyed. Some of them, including those from Agathe were, _ahem_ , risqué. They were filled with conversations on what we had shared, and what we hoped to share when we met again.

There were only four items remaining.

I unfolded the thin paper protecting an Afrika Korps tunic. I picked it up, feeling the soft fabric. It still smelt of diesel oil and perspiration, along with the open air from the desert. Mixed with the other scents was the heavy smell of iron.

Marring the khaki cloth were massive blood stains which had dried to almost black. The blood was Ellery's, hemorrhaged from his eviscerated body. As I had witnessed his second death, I had placed my tunic under him to make him more comfortable.

I touched the stains, remembering the difficult moment. I had shut the memory of it out for the last three years, but it came rushing back. Ellery had lived in massive pain, his suffering for no other purpose other than to remind me of the fortune teller's prophecy a final time.

God! I had loved Ellery as the brother I had been denied. I quickly re-wrapped the tunic in the paper and placed it in the crate. The tunic was to be burned.

I stared at the handkerchief for several moments before I picked it up. I unfolded it, releasing the scents of pleasure and shame it contained. Even those were overwhelmed by the odor of Guest's heavy cologne. All together, they told the tale of the erotic experience we had shared. Guest had presented it to me as a memento of my first sexual experience with a man.

I had masochistically saved it, as Guest had known I would. I remembered the unbelievable intensity of the pleasure he had given me. It had been unlike anything I had ever experienced with a woman, before or even since. I knew the pleasure had been enhanced by the sinfulness of the act, shared with a repulsive man who had ruthlessly tortured me. A man who I had killed the following morning without a second thought.

Even after his death, Guest had cleverly maintained his power and control over me.

I placed it in the crate, down at the bottom. I wanted no one to know, or to even suspect what I had enjoyed with Guest. Like the letters and the tunic, the handkerchief was to be burned, taking my shameful secret with it.

I slipped Agathe's small photograph from my left breast pocket. My face softened as I gazed at her likeness.

"Ah, Agathe! It has come down to the final moments, just as I had predicted when we were last together in Italy," I murmured. "While we are parted in body, we shall not be parted in mind. I will continue to keep your photograph with me in hopes we will be reunited. After all, a warrior should always go into combat with a token from his lady fair."

I returned the photograph to my pocket. Nestled against the photograph was my lighter. The lighter was such a part of me I had completely forgotten about it. My fingers brushed against it, feeling its warmth.

I removed my lighter and placed it on the wrapped tunic.

I stared at it for several seconds before picking it up. It was a dark, burnished gold, expensive and beautifully made. I ran my thumb across the elegant script which spelled the name "James Lyon". The lighter was a handsome piece of workmanship, more of a piece of jewelry than an utilitarian tool. Such craftsmanship did not belong on a battlefield of death and destruction. I always imaged Lyon using the lighter in an elite private men's club or at Ascot, lighting a woman's cigarette held in a long holder.

The lighter had been my constant companion for the last three years. Lyon had given it to me on the battlefield of Jufra before I had offered to perform his mercy killing. I held it in my palm, feeling the comforting weight of it. The only time it had left my possession was when Guest had stolen it from me during my captivity in Ater. I had sworn to Guest I would retrieve it, even if it meant killing him. I had kept my word on both accounts, and the lighter had never left my possession again.

But now, my situation was becoming dire. It was time to release the sentimentality which could be deadly on the battlefield. I wrapped the lighter in a clean handkerchief and placed it in the box, lightly resting it on top of the other items. I could always use matches, I tried to convince myself, if I should ever be fortunate to obtain cigarettes again.

I began to close the box. Before the lid was even shut, I opened it again.

I was unable to part with it. The lighter belonged with me. As embarrassed as I was to admit it, it had become my talisman. While I felt I was above senseless superstitions, a foolish part of me believed the lighter would keep me alive.

I removed it from the box and returned it to my pocket.

"No, you and Agathe will continue to accompany me into battle until the end," I pronounced.

Immediately, I sealed the crate before I changed my mind about any of the other items. I secured it with twine and added Kohl's address.

I proceeded to the hut serving for mail distribution, the box nestled in my arms.

I gave it to the gefreiter. "My understanding is that there is a post leaving shortly. Please assure my parcel is included."

"Jawohl, Herr Major." He frowned at the package. "I do want to warn you, though. There is no guarantee your package will arrive at its destination. I hope you did not place anything of value inside?"

I stifled a short laugh. No, nothing of value. Only my life for the last five years. "Merely a few miscellaneous items I would like to ship home. There's no reason to be carrying them around anymore."

"No, really there isn't at this point," he readily agreed.

I was returning to my quarters when the gefreiter came running after me.

"Herr Major!" he called. In his hand was a letter. "I forgot to give you this letter. It arrived for you this afternoon. Surprising it made it through, given the war situation."

Eagerly, I accepted it, desperately praying for it to be from Agathe.

I stared down at the masculine handwriting. The letter was from my father.

The gefreiter noticed my reaction. "Bad news, Herr Major?"

It took me a few seconds to find the right words. "Unknown," I responded cautiously, "but I would say it is rather unexpected."

He shrugged and left.

I returned to my quarters with the unopened letter in my hand. My room was little more than a closet, barely able to contain a cot and the wooden box I had been using as a makeshift desk. I lit a candle and sat down on the cot.

I had not received any correspondence from my father since I had written to him almost a year ago, severing ties with him. And now, he had chosen to contact me when the war was in its final months.

I stared at his letter for several minutes. Was it bad news regarding my family? Had the family estate had been seized by either the National Socialists or the enemy? Or, had a family member been arrested by the Gestapo in a final chaotic moment?

My mind raced through the possibilities.

I shook my head as I discounted all of them. The enemy was advancing towards Coburg but they were not yet in close proximity to it. My family shared my thoughts regarding the Nazis, but they all knew well enough to keep it private amongst us. Besides, my father had so much unflattering information on various Nazis in power and he would have few qualms about extorting it to protect his family. Except for the confidence my family had kept hidden in the pool house, I knew of no other criminal actions by my family.

His letter was addressed to my exact unit and rank. Over the last year, I had served in numerous units which had been disbanded due to the hopeless shortage of men and then reconfigured into new ones. The sheer enormity of attempting to track so many men through such frequent changes was the common cause of frequent grumblings about lost mail. I had informed no one in my family about my current unit, or of my promotion to major.

Yet, my father knew well enough to ensure his letter reached me at this critical moment. I suspected he had continued to follow and keep watch over me even during my months of silence.

I had every intention of maliciously tearing it in two. Instead, I could not stop myself from eagerly ripping it open. For reason unknown, I suddenly and desperately wanted to reconnect with the man who had fathered me.

My father's bold, familiar handwriting, elegant in its bygone script, leapt from the heavy paper. His words were written in the strong formal verse to which I had become accustomed over the years.

The letter was dated little more than a fortnight ago. It was as short and as concise as I would have expected from him.

 _Hans Erich,_

 _During the last year, I have honored and respected your desire for privacy, but with the war coming to an imminent end, I believe it is time for me to now reach out to you. I have greatly missed having you in my life and I hope you will reconsider our estrangement as I deeply desire for you to be my son again._

 _At times, our relationship has been less than ideal for which I take responsibility. I am truly sorry for my interference throughout your life, especially with your military career. My actions were inappropriate and intrusive. I recognize they were misguided and demeaning to you as a man and as a soldier. It undercut your ability to serve independently as an officer and placed your commanding officers in a difficult situation. While I have possessed nothing but complete confidence in your ability to successfully lead men into combat and to also choose your own path in life, I have allowed my personal concerns to selfishly dictate my actions. I assure you I will not do so again._

 _I take enormous pride in your accomplishments and the great honor you have brought to our family, not just on the battlefield, but throughout your life. I ask your forgiveness and I would gladly welcome the opportunity to reestablish our relationship as father and son. I realize you might not be willing to consider a reconciliation at this moment. I will be at your calling when you determine the moment to be right._

 _I pray to the Almighty you be delivered safely from the war and for your quick return soon to your family and home in Coburg._

 _Your loving Father_

 _Erich Johannes Dietrich_

I leaned back against the wall, absorbing his words. I was more than shocked.

I knew my father well enough to understand the letter must have been a very difficult one for him to write, especially after so much silence had passed between the two of us. My father possessed a strong streak of stubbornness which did not bend easily. It was a trait I had inherited from him. Though, I preferred to call it tenacity.

My father believed he rarely, if ever, made mistakes. His past admission of errors had been primarily limited to the few he had committed on the battlefield. These, he would readily admit to ensure he would not commit them again in the future. I could not remember him ever admitting his faults on a personal level. Let alone approach anyone for forgiveness. The lone exception was when he readily admitted his shortcomings to my mother.

For me to be the recipient of his regret must have been extremely difficult for him. From my childhood on, the letter was the only time I could remember him asking for my forgiveness.

I reread his letter. His words were straight-forward and surprisingly honest. My father's letter addressed the constant tension which existed between the two of us, though we had each pretended it did not exist.

Obviously, he was reaching out to me before it was too late for the both of us.

I believed my father to be sincere at this moment. But, would he actually follow through and maintain his word?

I had carried the burden of my animosity against him since my childhood. We were two completely different men yet, at the same time, incredibly similar. It was a comparison my sister never let me forget.

I had avoided being with my father to escape his high expectations, unrealistic demands for perfection, and finally, his intrusion in my career. As much as I hated to admit it, a part of me took shameful satisfaction in the pain I had caused him by my frequent absences and lengthy silences.

Any satisfaction was replaced by disgrace as I recalled how I had viciously attacked his honor with accusations of him having been a poor officer, the cause of death of many men who had reported to him during the First World War. Even at the time, I had not believed my own words in the slightest. I had attacked him with the cruelest weapon way I had at my disposal, for no other purpose than wanting to wound him. I had succeeded. After he had physically struck me several times, we had had severed contact for seven months until my graduation.

On several occasions over the years, I had attempted to apologize for my malicious words. But, I had never succeeded in truly making amends for it. As for my father, I did not know if the incident was still on his mind, or if he even remembered it. I myself had pretended the incident had never happened.

The letter was proof. It had been forgotten by neither of us.

Suddenly, I was exhausted, more emotionally than physically. I closed my eyes. In the distance were the sounds of artillery, a constant reminder of the war.

I opened my eyes and stared out the cracked window. Occasionally, sleet pelted against the dirty glass, a harbinger of even worse weather to come.

At least fresh snow would cover up the dirt, grime and blood.

Perhaps it was essential for my own sanity to forgive my father and to, in turn, receive his forgiveness for my poor behavior against him. While I could not forget his actions, nor would he likely ever forget mine, an apology would allow us the ability to put the ugliness of the past behind us. It would be a fresh start.

I reached into my satchel for a scrap of paper and the only writing instrument I possessed, the nub of a pencil. My letter was as formal and as direct as his had been.

 _Sir,_

 _I welcome the opportunity to reconcile with you. Our relationship over the years has been a difficult one, but I believe the both of us now desire a reconciliation. I have wanted to re-establish a connection with you for quite some time, but have felt unable to do so._

 _There is much I need to say to you. I also desire to apologize for my words and actions over the years._

 _The immediacy of the war situation has created an unknown for everyone. Perhaps now, before any additional time is lost, it would be best for both of us to put aside our differences and to reunite as father and son._

 _H. Dietrich_

I placed the note in a crumpled envelope and hurriedly addressed it. I would post it before I changed my mind. I pulled on my greatcoat and placed the two letters in an inner pocket to keep them safe and dry.

I returned to the mail shack and eagerly removed my letter from my pocket.

"I have one additional item to be posted," I said, handing it to the same gefreiter.

The gefreiter began shaking his head before I had even finished speaking.

"I'm sorry, Herr Major, but the post has already left. You're too late."

"When do you expect the next one?" I asked, trying to conceal the eagerness in my voice.

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Truthfully? Probably never. Mail is not a high priority these days. I doubt there will be another one. Ever," he responded with resignation. "Looks like your package was on the final run."

My expression must have shown my frustration.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I hope your letter was not an urgent response to the one I gave you earlier."

I wanted to burst out laughing at the irony of the situation. "No," I said looking down at my letter. "No, neither letter was urgent in the least. Nothing is different than what it has been in the past."

I left the shed and stopped outside. The night had turned bitterly cold, the sleet heavier. There was a petrol barrel nearby, turned into a stove with scraps of wood jutted from the top. I stepped near it, more for its light than for the little warmth it provided against the frigid weather.

I removed my father's letter from my pocket and placed it with mine. I stared at them for a few seconds before closing my fist, crumpling the two of them together. It was too late for any correspondence between us.

It was too late for many things.

I tossed the letters into the fire, watching as they were destroyed before returning to my quarters.


	7. 1945 - 23 Februar

I had believed the retreat in North Africa was devastating. However, it paled in comparison to the current annihilation we were now enduring. The formally well trained and well organized Wehrmacht had fallen into complete and utter chaos, any semblance of discipline long dissipated.

The Wehrmacht had been pushed back deep into Germany. It was nearly impossible to fathom only a few short years ago, the Reich had stretched thousands of kilometers from where I stood. Now, Germany's borders had shrunk to less than a thousand kilometers from Berlin. The ground for which we had killed and bled was rapidly disappearing, our struggle for naught as we continued to lose territory to the Allies.

Germany had once been feared and respected. Now, it was despised and belittled along with its people. When one had once been the victor, defeat was difficult to accept.

The once undying support the German people had held for their native sons had dissolved. The cheering had stopped long ago and our glory had faded into criticism. The crowds which had once welcomed us now spat upon us. Germans were becoming increasingly hostile towards the Wehrmacht, blaming our lack of will and motivation for the current state. To save Germany, we needed to rise to the Furhrer's expectations, they jeered, or our lives were not worth living.

Their words angered me.

How quickly they had forgotten what we had accomplished in the early days of the war! The glory we had brought to Germany! The Wehrmacht had been unstoppable and countries had continually fallen before us. We had fought loyally under the most trying conditions. Now, we were only to be rewarded for our service with disdain.

I forced myself to place their hateful words aside. The people of Germany were not to blame. In the waning days of the war, the Nazi rhetoric against the Wehrmacht had increased exponentially. Many knew of nothing else except for blind allegiance to the Fuhrer and to the Nazis, and had become all too accustomed to having their beliefs dictated to them. It was to be expected for the people to absorb the bitterness. And, to redirect it towards us.

And then, the Germans had other reasons to be angry with the Wehrmacht.

In the final agonizing death throes of the Reich, our orders had been expanded to include a "scorched Earth" policy.

If Hitler could not have Germany, then neither would its invaders or even its survivors.

Orders from Berlin demanded the destruction of anything German which could be useful to the enemy, down to the last kernel of grain. I believed the policy was in place more to punish the German people for the impending defeat than to keep potential supplies from the enemy. I followed through on the orders, but attempted to limit the destruction to items of actual military value, such as bridges and equipment. I conveniently "overlooked" farms, unable to bring myself to order the annihilation of animals and crops. There was already a scarcity of food and it would only become worse in the future. Even in the short term, food stocks would be critical for Germany to survive the winter.

Many soldiers, especially those from the SS, did not share my philosophy. My unit frequently came across ruined farms, only their burned husks left. Slaughtered animals were left to rot, not even butchered for their meat. Early field plantings and fruit trees were ground under panzers, denying them to starving refugees or soldiers who were little better off than the civilians.

Many of the SS gleefully shot and destroyed anything, ignoring the desperate pleas of farmers and land owners. None of you deserve to live, the SS men would snarl at them. You should have done more to ensure the survival of the Reich. Elderly men who protested too strongly were also shot, while their wailing wives and daughters stood witness.

The orders we received from Berlin became impossible to carry out. Militarily, they had no hope of succeeding. Retreat was only for strategic purposes, we were informed, to regroup and then counter-attack when the opportunity presented itself. But, we were constantly retreating, defying orders issued by the Fuhrer to hold millimeters at any cost.

The idea of counter-attacking was ludicrous. The few men, and even less equipment, we possessed barely kept us alive, let alone giving us the strength required to push back the enemy from Germany. In reality, retreat wasn't a strategy. It was a necessary action for us to survive.

Of course, we were told our sacrifices were only necessary until "miracle weapons" became available and turned the tide of the war.

Even if they had existed, it was far too late for any "miracle weapons" to make any significant impact on the war. To me, a "miracle" had become a working panzer with fuel, or a cache of sufficient ammunition. To believe in salvation from these farcical and fictional weapons would be to be as insane as the leaders issuing the communiques.

The majority of Germany had already been lost to the enemy. It would not be long before my country would be cut into two. The Soviets were pushing from the East, the Americans and British from the West.

My mother's beloved Prussia had already fallen under Soviet control. I could only imagine how her heart must have broken at the thought of the Bolsheviks raiding her idyllic childhood home. An exquisite estate like something from a mystical fairy tale, my mother had not lived there since her marriage. But, she had visited there frequently and we still had relatives in the area.

Looking westward, I fervently prayed it would be the Western powers who captured Berlin. God only knew what the Soviets would do in retaliation for Hitler's treachery towards the Soviet Union. There were already wide-spread reports of mass rapes and pillaging occurring in territories captured by the Red Army. The Soviets had proven themselves little more than barbarians. Their actions had no place in civilized warfare.

My God! How much more blood must Germany bleed before Hitler accepted the inevitable?

The Wehrmacht dead began to pile up, uncounted. Any meaningful record keeping had disintegrated months prior. My unit dutifully submitted our casualty reports, but I doubted anything was done with the information. Authorities notifying families of the deaths was a forgotten luxury. Families would be left to wonder about their fathers, their husbands, and their sons, uselessly praying for their return. Never would they know the truth, never knowing where their loved ones had fallen or, even where they had been buried.

Our retreat was marked by the long unending lines of the shallow graves which stored the bodies of our hastily buried dead. We did our best to mark the graves with a soldier's information so his remains could be properly interred after the war. Eventually, we were forced to leave the dead where they fell, with the hope the enemy would take mercy on them and perform the final task of laying them to rest.

The desire of the enemy to defeat us was unflagging. No matter how many of them we killed, it seemed like their numbers continued to multiply. Their troop strength was overwhelming, their supplies unlimited. It was a sharp contrast to the few men and materials we possessed. Our desire to conquer and dominate had been replaced by desperation to survive.

We had resorted to recovering ammunition and weapons from those who had fallen. It didn't matter whether from German or Allied soldiers, we scavenged anything which could be of use. We now possessed more Allied munitions than we did German. Their technology had improved to equal or to be the superior of German armaments. It was impossible to avoid the awful irony of how many Allies we killed with their own weapons.

As for food, receiving rations was unreliable at best. What we did receive was never enough, not even for the few remaining men still serving. We searched for food from abandoned houses and ancient animal feed from barns and sheds. Scraps of fodder animals had long ago refused to eat were gathered as some type of nourishment and boiled. The vile mixture was then choked down by myself and my men.

It did not take long for the sparse diet to greatly impact us. We lost a significant amount of weight, our tattered uniforms soon hanging on our thin frames. Our faces became sunken eyed and hollow cheeked. The look was of one of exhaustion, and of being hunted.

Grooming was an indulgence I could no longer afford.

I had no razor and was forced to use my knife to attempt to shave away my facial hair. It was impossible to sharpen the knife. No matter how frequently I attempted, it remained so dull it cut my skin more easily than it did my beard. To save my face, I only shaved when I knew I would be having an interaction with a senior officer. The worst of it was I was infested with the same lice which plagued my men. My body was covered with sores and scabs from the little parasitic vermin. I could not imagine a moment's respite from them.

To control the lice, the febel had attempted to cut all our hair with a pair of farm shears he had found, but the blades were worn and his talents did not lend to being a barber. Our hair was unevenly cut in some places, to the scalp. Despite his good intentioned efforts, it did nothing to stop the spread of the vermin.

What I would give for something as simple as a toothbrush! Mine had been lost weeks prior, and I had been forced to use a rag to clean my teeth. So desperate had I become, I had even approached the Red Cross, almost begging for one.

The matron's response was to look at me incredulously. Surely as an officer, she responded, you should be able to afford something as simple as a toothbrush. I simply shook my head. She had no comprehension of how we had not paid in weeks nor how what few Reichsmarks we possessed were worthless. Then write home and request your family to send you one, she had responded with crisp efficiency.

"That is not an option," I answered coldly. I left fuming.

As much as we needed munitions and food, all was useless without men. More than anything else, we needed replacement troops. Reinforcements were a dream. There were none, and had been none, for years. The manpower shortage had been felt in Africa, and three years had passed since then.

Munitions could be manufactured and food grown, but any able-bodied man must had to have been born at least eighteen years ago. Eighteen? I snorted at the idea. More likely sixteen years ago, due to the high casualty rates and the length of the war. Even the age of sixteen was drifting downwards to fourteen.

Or, God-forbid, twelve.

The only "men" available were the elderly and young boys. I remembered the young men who had served under me in Africa. I had thought them impossibly youthful at the time, barely old enough to shave. But they were ancient compared to those now being conscripted.

Germany was now so desperate for men it had resorted to re-assigning Luftwaffe airman and Hitler Jugend to be soldiers. Both groups were being sent to the front, but it was the first time they had been assigned to a unit near my area of operation.

The seasoned febels complained constantly about the Hitler Jugend.

"The higher ups can't possibly believe I can make soldiers out of them," a febel would hiss while waving towards them. "They don't even know how to carry or fire a rifle, let alone engage in combat against an experienced enemy. We'll spend more time carrying their bodies off the field."

"We have little choice," the officers would retort, attempting to make some order in the face of the absurdity.

"But. . ."

"Enough!" the officers would warn the febels. "There are no men remaining in Germany. If anyone can turn them into soldiers it will be you febels. All of us will stand, or fall, together against the enemy and for the Fuhrer."

The majority of them, both the airmen and Hitler Jugend, were slaughtered. I witnessed their deaths along with my own men, unable to stop the hemorrhage.

A part of me wanted to join them in death to just end the God damned war.

Soon, the horror of the fox hunt from so long ago returned to me. I began seeing it in my dreams with an increasing frequency, robbing me of what little sleep I could catch, adding to my exhaustion. Eventually, it visited me during my waking hours.

By then, I knew I was already living its reality.


	8. 1945 - 17 Marz

Exhausted, I was climbing down from one of our few remaining panzers when someone began crying my name.

"Hans! Hans!" called a youthful voice.

It had been so long since I had been addressed by my given name, I was taken off guard.

Puzzled, I looked around. A boy was running towards me, waving wildly. He was in a uniform at least two sizes too large for him, making him appear like an even younger child playing dress up in his father's clothing. I waited, thinking he would trip over his greatcoat and fall into the heavy mud.

The boy stopped in front of me, breathless, his face beaming.

"I mean, 'Hauptmann Dietrich'", he corrected, giving me a Nazi salute and a wide grin.

I was so taken off guard I could barely bring my arm up to return him a half salute.

He took a close look at me. "Oh! I mean Major," he corrected himself a second time after noticing my rank.

It took me only a few seconds to recognize him.

Rolf Kluge was the son of a baker who owned a small bakery in Coburg. Although his father was a tradesman, the family was highly respected in the vicinity.

I had known Rolf since he had been an infant, born a few years before I left to attend the academy. I had witnessed him growing up, and I had always made the effort to stop by the bakery to visit his family when I was home on leave. He was a pleasant boy, and I had frequently taken him hiking and on outings. When his father wasn't looking, I would slip him a few Reichsmarks here and there, believing boys should always have some pocket money of their own to spend as they saw fit.

After only knowing him in the peaceful surroundings of Coburg, I could not comprehend seeing Rolf in the middle of the violence of the war.

"Rolf, what in God's name are you doing here?" I stammered in surprise, unable to prevent myself from asking. Of course, I knew why he was here. Perversely, I wanted him to confirm my dread.

"Why, my Hitler Jugend unit was formally called up to fight in the Waffen SS. Isn't it grand?"

I continued staring at him. I didn't think it was "grand" in the least. I believed it deplorable for any country to send boys off to war, and especially attached to an SS unit.

My silence prompted him to continue talking.

"It's really about time we were called up," he elaborated. "It should have happened months ago. There's so much more the Hitler Jugend can contribute to the war cause than just delivering the mail or manning anti-aircraft guns."

He spoke as if he was describing merely being called unto the football pitch as a substitute for a game. It would have been amusing, if I hadn't known he was serious.

But, his next words were the most disturbing by far.

"Finally, it's our turn to fight! We're ready to fight and to protect the Fatherland and the Fuhrer from the animal Bolsheviks and the filthy Jews!"

I was shocked at his words.

I had never known Rolf nor his family to be anti-Semitic. In fact, I knew his father had given bread to Jews even after it had become dangerous to provide any assistance to them. Not only had he put himself at a great risk, he had brushed aside any question of compensation refusing to take advantage of those in need.

The Rolf I had known was gone.

"Is your family aware of your political views?" I asked.

"Of course. I'm part of the SS. My views should be obvious," Rolf added proudly. His face darkened. "I'm also here to avenge my older brother."

"Dieter has fallen?" Dieter was much closer to my age than Rolf. We had shared several beers over the years in the local beer garden, discussing sports and laughing about women. Some things were common in life, no matter of one's class or background. His parents now stood to lose both sons and the idea of it saddened me.

"He's not dead, just captured," Rolf corrected me. "Still, I don't like it that he is prisoner of the Amis and being held in the crude and uncivilized wilds of America."

I looked upward and said a prayer of gratitude for the deliverance of Dieter's safety. Hopefully, we would once again share a beer after the war ended for the both of us.

My actions of gratitude went unnoticed by Rolf.

"Who knows what type of stories about Germany they are brainwashing him with? They are so arrogant, thinking they are better than us. I don't know how Dieter could have even been captured. The Amis are such lousy crybabies. Everyone knows they can't properly fight a war."

His naïve words were so far from the fact. Though, I had shared the same contempt for American soldiers until I had fought against them in North Africa. Troy alone had demonstrated what one American could achieve against massive odds with a few men and limited resources. Although I still disliked Americans on a personal level, my low opinion of them as fighters had rapidly changed to one of respect.

I chose my words carefully.

"And you know this for a fact? My experience against them has been something rather different." I paused before continuing. Rolf's dark words had been ominous. "And what is your plan for achieving revenge, Rolf? By being killed yourself, leaving your parents with no sons?"

"You need to call me by my proper rank, Major," he pointedly corrected me. "I am Rottenfuhrer Kluge. Even though I am a family friend, younger and without your experience, I still deserve your respect as an active member of the SS."

My eyes narrowed, but I gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement. My action provided the respect Rolf was seeking and removed the tension. He soon reverted to being the exuberant boy I had always known.

"When did you receive your promotion, Hans?" he asked with bright eyes.

Interesting how he insisted on being formally called by his rank, but omitted mine. I let it pass, not caring to press the issue in reverse.

"March, 1944."

"Wow! Your family must be so proud of you! You haven't been home on leave in a long time. Your family hasn't said much about you lately so I didn't know about it."

"No, the war's intensity has prevented me from taking leave. I have not been to Coburg in over a year," I said carefully.

Rolf nodded his approval. "Duty should always come first. You have always been a good soldier."

Silently, I towered over him, not knowing how to continue the conversation. An idea came to me.

"How about I see if you could be transferred into my unit?" I asked, my only reasoning to keep Rolf safe and near me. "We can serve together, just as we used to discuss. I could use someone of your caliber fighting alongside me."

"Oh, no, Hans! I wouldn't want any special treatment."

"You would receive nothing of the kind from me," I reassured him. "I would still expect you to serve at the same level as any other soldier reporting to me."

"No offense to you, but I have no desire to serve with the Wehrmacht." He fairly beamed with pride. "I'm with the SS and want to stay with them."

It took every ounce of my strength not to curl my lip at his choice of services

"The Wehrmacht's dedication and skill just doesn't meet the standards of the SS," Rolf continued matter-of-factly. "Besides, it would be impossible for me to serve in the Wehrmacht after what they tried to do to the Fuhrer." Rolf looked at me like I was the younger and more naïve of the two of us. "I know you're trying to protect me. It really isn't necessary. I'm already an experienced combat veteran. You know, I've killed four men. I'm not green anymore," he added bursting with pride.

Now I was speechless. I could not comprehend a young boy speaking so casually of killing. Even as a man, it was something I rarely discussed. Even when I did, it was only in the most professional manner. I demanded soldiers reporting to me to show the same level of respect.

"You've been in the war since the beginning. How many of the enemy have you killed, Hans? You must have killed lots and lots over the years."

I was taken back by his question. It was one I had never been asked before, not even by the crass Wilhelm Meyer.

"I have not, and would not, keep count," I replied indignantly.

"Sure you haven't," Rolf said with a wink. "You _are_ an officer, after all. I guess it would be unbecoming and all that sort of stuff."

I didn't comment. I could only look down at the boy who had been so thoroughly taken over, in mind and body.

"Well, I'd best be off, Hans. I'll see you around!"

He turned and ran off, much as if he was late for school.

Someone came to stand by me. I glanced aside to see it was my febel, Schmidt.

"Was he bothering you, Herr Major?" Schmidt asked me. The two of us stared after Rolf as he rejoined his little Hitler Jugend friends.

"No, he wasn't. The boy is from my hometown. I have known him for several years. I just hadn't expected to see him here as part of an SS unit. I don't know which of us was more surprised. Him or me."

"The situation is truly becoming desperate for Germany, using boys as combat soldiers," Schmidt said, sharing my thoughts. "I haven't fought with any of them, but from what I've heard, these little shits are fearless and ferocious. Too indoctrinated to listen to any sense because they don't know any better." He shook his head. "Let's hope for the best."

I nodded, acknowledging Schmidt's words.

We both knew the best was far gone and the worst was still yet to come.

The enemy attacked early the next morning with the engagement lasting for most of the day. Our artillery and panzers attempted to contain them, but were unable to do so. The number of their heavy weapons far exceeded ours and they were blessed with a larger supply of ammunition. With no need to conserve ammunition, they could fire at will. The lengthy barrage paved the way for a frontal infantry attack.

My unit was stationed near the front lines. Our panzers were stationary due to the lack of fuel, acting more as artillery than as a mechanized unit. Being so far forward, we began taking heavy casualties from the continuous assaults. Soon, we were forced to abandon the destroyed panzers and begin serving as infantry.

Our orders were to maintain the line at any cost. We were not to relinquish the smallest fraction of a millimeter. By the time I took responsibility and ordered my men to fall back, it was too late for us to successfully re-establish our positions to halt the attack.

The enemy came at us in waves, storming our hastily constructed fortifications non-stop. The German heavy machine guns fired continually leaving bodies fallen across the area. The gun barrels soon became red-hot, jamming and failing due to their overuse. We continued firing them until, due to the lack of spare parts, they were unusable. The teams soon began running out of ammunition. Runners were constantly sent to the rear to procure additional supplies.

The machine gunners soon became overwhelmed, ineffectual against such a heavy enemy assault. It was like the stories Kohl had told me of combat in the First World War, when trenches had been breached by a superior enemy with unlimited resources. Inevitably, our positions were overrun and hand-to-hand combat ensued.

There is something surreal about such personal combat, and the kill or be killed mentality which consumes one. There is a desperate, primeval instinct driving survival. One only becomes concerned with the immediate threat you are seeking to neutralize. When one is gone, attention is immediately turned to the next.

At first, the enemy is far enough away where one can still use a rifle, smoothing aiming and firing without truly seeing him. The proximity closes and then one begins using a sidearm. When the sidearm is no longer viable, there is no choice except to resort to a knife.

Or, any other weapon one might have at hand.

At times, I was forced to resort using my rifle as a physical weapon, smashing it against the enemy's skull. If the desired result of death was not achieved, I would then complete the kill by using my knife or sidearm. I always ensured the man was dead before moving on to the next target. I had seen too many occasions of a "mortally wounded" man killing just as effectively as an unwounded one.

All around me, I could hear the screams and cries of men rising above the constant explosions of the armaments. Cries of victory were mixed with the death screams, one man's success resulting in the mortality of another.

Time passed unknown as the killing proceeded non-stop.

German forces were ordered from the rear to close the hole in the lines. I gradually comprehended fresh .88mms and panzers were present in the combat area. They were advancing against the enemy infantry, pushing against them and driving them back. German infantry followed the heavy weapons finally providing us with additional man power. With this additional support, we were able to halt the enemy's advance and to push them back behind our original positions.

When the engagement was over, I was still alive. Gratefully, I allowed the awareness of my survival to wash over me.

Mentally and physically exhausted, I sank to my knees. I closed my eyes for a moment, thanking God for my survival and then asking for His forgiveness for the numerous men whom I had killed. I could only hope He would understand I had been given no choice.

Reopening my eyes, I looked around me.

Everything had been for nothing. No territory had been gained or lost by either side. Except for the dead men and the burning tanks, everything was as it had been before the assault had begun. A waste of good men and equipment. The Allies would easily regroup and would still inevitably defeat the Third Reich.

An unfamiliar febel ran up to me. There was a red-cross band on his arm. He anxiously began speaking to me. Deafened from the attack, I could not understand him. It took me several seconds to comprehend his words.

"Herr Major! Are you injured? Do you need medical assistance?"

I shook my head in response. He attempted to grasp my arm to assist me to stand. I sharply pulled back to avoid his touch.

I came to my feet on my own.

"I am fine. See to the wounded from both sides," I ordered him. "There is enough of them to keep your team busy for quite some time."

"Jawohl, Herr Major!" The febel saluted me before leaving, running off to see to the many wounded and dead. Other medical personnel soon joined him to begin their grisly task.

I recovered my sidearm and holstered it. I picked up my rifle, grimacing at its cracked stock. Beyond repair, I threw it aside. I cleaned my knife on the ground before sheathing it. Nearby was my cover, somehow intact. I reached for it and replaced it.

There was blood and tissue splattered across my uniform, grisly residue from the men whose lives I had ended. My face was probably covered with more of the same. No wonder the medical febel had been concerned for my health. I surveyed myself, finding my only wound to be a knife slash on my left forearm. So much death of others, at such a low cost to myself. I knew I should feel fortunate. Somehow, I could not.

I found Hahn and the remainder of my unit shortly afterwards. He gave me a brief status report. The men had become separated due to the intensity of the conflict, but he was now able to account for all of them. Several were wounded, a few severely, but all were expected to live. No deaths, thank God. Unable to maneuver, the panzers had been destroyed and were a total loss.

I looked out across the battlefield.

The air was heavy with smoke from the artillery fire and the burning panzers. Mixing with it was the acrid smell of burnt flesh. The German medics were systematically combing the casualties from both sides, trying to save as many as possible. Soon, the medics would be followed by the burial details. Sadly, the dead would outnumber the living. A realistic but hardened part of me noticed with satisfaction the enemy dead far outnumbered the German.

I don't know why, but I was drawn to a slight body off in the distance. I left Hahn and began staggering towards it. The soldier wore a German uniform, but to be cautious, I drew my sidearm and armed it. I cautiously approached the man.

It was Rolf and he was still alive.

His eyes reached out and locked with mine across the distance. I holstered my weapon and was soon by his side. I prayed for him to be only wounded, but all of my prayers were to be unanswered today.

I stood over him. I, and everyone on this Earth, was powerless to do anything for his gaping wounds and traumatic blood loss.

Rolf looked up at me with a puzzled look, as if he could not understand how he and his Hitler Jugend brethren had failed in their duty for the Fatherland.

I knelt to be closer to him in his final moments.

"I want my mother," he murmured, his eyes filled with tears. "Mutti? Mutti!"

"Don't be afraid," I whispered. "You are going home."

He slowly comprehended my words.

"Then come with me, Hans, come with me," he begged. "I don't want to be alone. We can serve together as we talked about."

"It is not my time, Rolf. Soon, but not now. I will follow you later," I said, denying his final request.

Rolf attempted to speak again. Blood began to stream from his mouth, choking him and garbling his words.

His body began to relax and he sank back down on the ground. The light soon left his blue eyes, leaving him staring sightlessly at the sky. Reaching over, I closed his eyes which would never see again.

I looked up at the darkening sky, my fists clutched in rage. I wanted to scream at my God, hiding behind the darkening clouds, unwilling and unable to face me. I wanted to know why the killing continued.

Why, why was it necessary when Germany had reached the abyss?

How much more blood could He possibly demand from all the participants in the war?

I wanted to scream at Him as I had done when I had witnessed Ellery's death, but I had no words to express my outrage and despair.

Besides, I already knew His answer.

I picked up Rolf's rifle, replacing my broken one and slung it over my shoulder.

Without looking at his body again, I turned and left.


	9. 1945 - 31 Marz

I was witnessing the final death throes of the Third Reich.

Any man away from his unit was automatically assumed to be a deserter. These men were taken care of without mercy by the SS. There were no explanations accepted, no trials necessary. Execution was the automatic verdict and delivered on the spot.

Our retreat was littered with the hanging bodies of my brothers. Many were festooned with crude and vulgar signs stating how they were cowards and traitors. The corpses had been left hanging to rot, serving as a grim message to all: Absolute obedience was demanded and expected until the bitter end.

Compassion and honor caused me to order the bodies be cut down and, when possible, to be humanely buried. These soldiers had once been a mother's son. They deserved the decency of a dignified final moment, even if their families would probably never know what had happened to them.

In a way, it was better for the family to believe their loved one had been killed in action by the enemy, instead of at the hands of a fellow German.

I wanted to conceal these final desperate moments as the Third Reich crumpled. How could we kill our own men when likely they had committed no crime? While I had nothing but contempt for a coward who would desert his unit in the heat of battle, I knew these men had inadvertently become separated due to little training, the intensity of combat and the lack of coherent orders issued to them.

The implications were weighing on my mind when I was informed Unteroffizier Eduard Richter was missing after the last engagement. I had the surrounding areas immediately searched and contacted the nearby field hospitals.

I soon received word that Richter had been located. He was being held by the SS. I knew I must act at once if I stood any chance of saving him. Without delay, I drove to the SS area alone. I wanted none of my other men involved in what I was willing to do to retrieve Richter.

I arrived to see Richter already standing on the bonnet of a Kubelwagon, parked beneath a tree. A noose was tightly around his neck. I knew the Sturmbannfuhrer standing beside him. My disdain of the SS officer's actions was overshadowed by my anger.

Richter was petrified, his face pale and sweating. He looked at me with some hope and more than some relief.

"Herr Major! Please save me!" Richter begged. "They think I am a deserter! Nothing could be further from the truth, I swear. I became separated from the remainder of our unit."

I went to the Sturmbannfuhrer. "What is the meaning of this, Boehm?"

"Does this piece of shit belong to your unit, Dietrich? He appears to have become 'lost'. At least, this is what his words maintain."

"We've experienced heavy combat for several days, Boehm. Ours is not the only unit to have become scattered due to the intensity." I kept my tone factual, hoping to hide my uneasiness. "I am vouching for Richter. Order him cut down."

"You Wehrmacht soldiers always go on and on about everything and anything to make excuses for your failures."

Boehm took out his cigarettes, offering me one. I waved it off, concentrating on freeing Richter. Shrugging, Boehm lit one and casually began smoking.

He looked at me with amusement. "There was no reason for him to become separated unless he planned on deserting. And, he was found heading towards the enemy lines. Try and explain this small fact away, Dietrich."

"The combat situation is fluid, the maps hopelessly outdated. The terrain appears like nothing listed on the documents, especially after the artillery bombardments," I countered. "You are aware of the conditions. The SS is fighting in the same areas."

Boehm drew deeply on the cigarette. "Nice try, Dietrich, but not good enough. The SS adapts to the situation and does not resort to deserting when fighting becomes fierce."

I attempted to reason with him using the deplorable military situation as an excuse. "I need every man for when we counter attack tomorrow. No one can be spared."

"Better to be down one man and have those remaining fight loyally," he reasoned.

"At least have Unteroffizier Richter tried in a proper military court presided over by the Wehrmacht so we can determine the truth."

"The Wehrmacht would only slap his ass as a token punishment. The SS has the authority to try him given the circumstances. As such, we have given him a trial. Now, the SS will deliver a fitting punishment for his crime."

Boehm tapped the ash from his cigarette and gave the signal. The Kubelwagon was abruptly moved. Richter dropped.

While not significant enough to kill him outright, he began to strangle. His body began contorting, his hands scrabbling at the noose as he struggled to breathe.

I had watched men hang before. I had, in fact, ordered the deed done myself in Africa. But only after the individual had received a hearing and then hung properly by a professional.

My mind went to Troy. I had ordered him and a woman to be hung for passing classified information. It had been one of the most difficult orders I had given in my career. I had not been completely unhappy when both Troy and the woman had escaped.

Boehm continued smoking, watching Richter with an almost bored eye.

I drew my service weapon. I armed it and aiming at the taught rope which suspended Richter, I fired.

My arm was jostled by Boehm.

The shot went wild.

"Don't interfere, Dietrich," Boehm warned me. "This is beyond you. It is beyond the both of us. He is only receiving what his actions dictated. Perhaps, if you had been a more capable officer, he would not have deserted. Or, become 'lost'."

I had served admirably, maximizing military gains while minimizing casualties. My beliefs had been echoed by my superiors and my actions had been recognized and rewarded. Boehm questioning my ability as an officer went through me as though he had impaled me with his knife.

I brought up my weapon again. This time, I aimed it at Boehm. "I said, order him to be cut down."

Not believing I would dare such an action, Boehm's face turned red. The cigarette dropped from his mouth. I could hear his men draw their weapons and arm them.

My Walther did not waver. "I'm an inpatient man, Boehm. I will not ask you a third time."

Boehm's eyes narrowed. "You don't have the balls to pull the trigger, Dietrich."

Oh, if only Boehm knew of what I was capable. He'd have me hanging in the tree beside Richter. My thoughts turned to a small village ravaged by a typhus epidemic during the African campaign. Then, I had killed an SS officer to save Sergeant Jack Moffitt and Fraulein Arno, a Red Cross nurse.

Today, I would have no trouble killing Boehm to save Righter.

There was deadly intent in my voice when I spoke again. "Trust me, Boehm, I do."

Boehm suddenly realized I had every intent of following through with my threat. "All I have to do is signal my men and they'll shoot you where you stand."

His men had grown serious and quiet, any joking about hanging a man long over. Their weapons were aimed at me. His threat was not an idle one.

"True. But my final action will be to pull the trigger. Which, in turn, will kill you." I inclined my head. "Perhaps we will see one another in hell?"

Boehm took a step back from me, his crimson face glowing with perspiration. "You'll hang for doing it! You won't even warrant a firing squad for murdering an SS officer."

"Probably." My eyes locked with his.

"But are you willing to trade the life of a Sturmbannfuhrer for an Unteroffizier?" I gave him a cold grin. "Of course, I'm taking advantage of you. But, all the same, I'll accept the trade."

Boehm was beginning to waver. He looked at his men and gave a signal. Two men lifted Richter up providing slack on the rope. A third man drove the Kubelwagon forward, just enough for Richter's feet to touch it. Climbing up on it, the man cut the rope tying Richter to the tree. The men released Richter and he fell heavily to the ground.

Quickly, I went to him. I loosened the noose from around his neck. When there was no response, I thought it was too late for him.

Finally, Richter sucked in a mouthful of air. He began gagging before rolling aside to vomit. He lay there for a few minutes, gasping, before I offered him my hand. He took it, unable to express his gratitude in words.

I pulled him up and put his arm around my shoulders to steady him.

"I believe our trade is complete, Boehm." I said. "We will now take our leave."

We began walking away, me half-carrying Richter. I knew all eyes were on us, along with their weapons. I half expected for us to be cut down before we reached my Kubelwagon. When we finally reached the vehicle, I laid Richter down across the back seat to recover.

I had only been driving for a few minutes when the desire for heroin began to rise. Soon, it enveloped me. I broke out in a heavy perspiration, the sweat pooling under my arms and running down my back. My hands were shaking so violently I thought I would crash the vehicle into a tree.

God, how I wanted the drug! How I craved and needed its body and mind numbing bliss! I never felt the need for it during combat, only during intense psychological situations such as these. It was not the first time I had made this observation of my weakness and my inability to control it.

The desire had become stronger and more frequent as the war began edging towards its closure. Previously, my cravings had subsided to being weeks, and then months, apart. Now, they were appearing several times a week. Soon, it would be daily, if not constant.

Along with the cravings came the taunting night time visits of Guest, torturing me and violating me repeatedly while I slept. I didn't know which one was worse: The desperate need for heroin or the nightmares starring Guest.

I had asked myself the question many times before. Why was I the one addicted to heroin and not Troy? He had been tortured worse than I. He should be the one addicted. Was I less of a man? Had that been what had provoked Guest's desires for me?

I forced myself to continue driving, wanting to ensure we were far away from the SS before Boehm changed his mind. Gradually, I was able to control my trembling body. I had sufficiently recovered physically by the time we had arrived at our command center and to my men. My mind continued to rage, but at least my men would not witness my physical struggles or any signs other outward signs of weakness.

We were greeted with an amazed silence.

Our medic treated Richter's neck trauma. Richter would fully recover, but he would have obvious scarring from where the rope had bitten into him. It was a small price to pay for one's life.

I had turned to leave when Richter stopped me.

"Thank you, Herr Major, for saving my life," he said in a hoarse whisper, speaking for the first time. "You were very brave to go against the SS for me. I will name my first son after you in gratitude and as a legacy to your bravery."

I gave him a small smile and clasped him on the shoulder. "No, Richter, name him after yourself to prove to all you survived the war."

Later, I located a bottle of whiskey for a dear price. I drank like I had not done since my early cadet days. Cigarettes and women were non-existent in this area of the collapsing front. No other vices were available to me to sedate my torment. I had not had a drink in months and the liquor impacted me severely.

I drank so heavily, I passed out on the floor of my tent. I awoke the next morning with the strong urge to vomit. Groggy, I barely crawled to the first available container before I expelled what little I had in my stomach. The stench of my sick, nearly all of it alcohol, filled the cold air. I nearly regretted my raging hangover, but at least the night's stupor had prevented Guest from visiting me in my nightmares.

The desire for heroin still lurked within me, not quite dulled by the whiskey. Just one more reason why I was not the man I had thought I was, nor the German officer I had envisioned. I should not have resorted to threatening to kill an SS officer.

But regrets aside, I knew I would have. After all, Boehm would not have been the first SS officer I had killed. And, if conditions justified it, I would do it again.


	10. 1945 - 5 April

Time stood still for my final weeks. My sole focus was on my own survival and keeping my men alive with me. Our days were filled with exhaustion, gnawing hunger and killing. During a few precious moments of stillness, I attempted to push aside the thoughts of how many men I had killed in these trailing months.

My thoughts would inevitably drift back to Rolf's innocent question. I was thankful how I had never kept a body count. My tally would have exploded with the men who had fallen against me during these closing moments. Just as Germany would not surrender, neither would the Allies cease until Germany submitted to their terms.

It was a disjointed mathematical equation, and one impossible for the Wehrmacht to solve. In an inverse proportion of and insane magnitude, the rapidly decreasing number of German soldiers was offset daily by an ever increasing Allied army. With so many Allied soldiers as targets, it was impossible not to kill an alarming number of them.

The Wehrmacht did what it could to survive against such overwhelming odds. The ridiculous dream remained within the Nazi leadership that the Wehrmacht merely needed to regroup. Then, it would then be able to counter attack in force, driving the enemy from our homeland. For the Wehrmacht, this fantasy was replaced with the simple hope of survival.

My unit was more and more frequently ordered to drop back and circle behind the enemy. We struck from the rear, causing constant chaos and confusion. Our operations were originally only to be used as a diversionary tactic, enabling as many men and as much equipment as possible to converge with the remnants of the main Heer.

Over time, these orders became our norm as my unit's adaptability and successes increased.

These tactics were different from the conventional ones I had learned in the controlled classrooms of the Academy and on which I had relied upon on traditional battlefields. We frequently maneuvered without German panzers or artillery, relying only upon ourselves. An uncontrolled part of me began to emerge and my tactics became much different. But, while my actions were bold and free, they were still disciplined enough to deliver deadly results.

And, God forgive me, I had actually begun to appreciate, and relish, this new type of warfare.

It had not escaped me that my approach had descended into guerrilla warfare, the type of which I had unsuccessfully fought against in the North African desert. Troy and his team had taught me some hard lessons. Now, I recalled what I had inadvertently learned and put it to good use against the Allies.

We captured enemy supplies and equipment, destroyed fuel dumps and caused mayhem and destruction. Any equipment we captured from the enemy we used unmercifully to our advantage. At times, I took a fiendish delight in striking against the Allies with their own weapons while using tactics they had developed.

We did anything possible to ensure our survival and prolong the collapse of the Reich. We moved constantly, sleeping little. If I was lucky, I caught maybe a few hours of sleep each night. My men, slightly more. All faces were worn, our eyes sunken and hollow. Emotion was a luxury we could not afford. With empty eyes, we watched as the dead of the enemy piled up, the price they paid for the survival of our own brothers.

Using a high-powered rifle obtained from the enemy we eliminated individuals, and anything else within our sites. I disliked this type of warfare as much as any other soldier, but I believed I had no choice except to order and allow it given our situation. At times, there were so many targets, it was almost too easy.

But inevitably, our success waned. We experienced our first serious casualty. Gefreiter Garin Frege was seriously wounded. We were far behind enemy lines with few, if any, options for treating the wounded man.

"Give me his prognosis," I ordered Gehler, who was our acting medic. "We have little time before the Allies discover our location."

Gehler motioned me aside but Frege noticed his gesture.

"No," Frege said from clinched teeth. "I want to hear it. It is my prognosis and I should be able to hear it, no matter what the news."

Gehler looked at me and I nodded my approved.

He began clinically dispensing the facts.

"He has a lower abdomen wound which is serious, but probably not fatal."

Inwardly, I gave a sigh of relief. Frege had been a good soldier. The German attrition rate was already staggering. I did not want him added to the statistic.

Gehler was not finished yet. "However. . ."

My stomach tightened for the exception I knew was following. The initial good news would soon be followed by bad news. Gehler's next words confirmed my fears.

"There are several extenuating circumstances which will complicate his treatment," Gehler continued.

I looked down at Frege. He returned my gaze, his eyes calm and accepting. I turned back to Gehler. "What are these circumstances?"

"As a field medic, I don't have the skill necessary to treat him. His wound requires a surgeon."

My exasperation rose to the surface. "You just said his wound was survivable. You will need to do your best! We're too close to the end. He must survive along with the rest of us."

The blood rose in Gehler's face, growing anger mixing with desperation. "Herr Major, it's not so simple. It's not just my lack of skill, it's also the time necessary to perform the surgery. It would take at least a few hours, even for a trained surgeon, which I am certainly not. Do you honestly believe we have the luxury of so much time? And then, I haven't even mentioned the lack of medical supplies and drugs, especially chloroform, sulfa and penicillin. The wound will soon become infected given its conditions."

"Then what can you do for him, Gehler? All I'm hearing from you is how the situation is hopeless instead of you presenting me with alternatives."

"I'm trying to tell you, Herr Major!" Gehler spread his hands wide. "There is nothing I can do for him given our present situation."

I removed my cover and ran my hand through my hair. I replaced it, forcing myself to approach the situation logically.

There were no German medical facilities in the vicinity which could successfully treat Frege. I also dismissed any civilian facilities. They were in even worse shape than the military ones. All medical supplies have been seized and directed to the military ages ago and doctors were almost non-existent. Desperate, I attempted to recall any convents in the area where the nuns could at least provide Frege with a higher level of medical care than we could in the field.

There were none.

Despite every end seeming to be a dead one, I refused to leave Frege to his fate.

My anger began to rise as my remaining hope began to plummet. I was the commanding officer, trusted by the Wehrmacht and my men to oversee them and I was failing them at a critical moment. I pushed aside my anger. It would achieve nothing.

A thought seized me.

I pulled out several maps and spread them across the Kubelwagon's bonnet.

"We're in Allied territory and there has been heavy activity in this area. The Allies must have field hospitals in the vicinity," I said. Gehler was listening, but the words were more to myself.

I scanned the maps before settling on one marked area. "Here," I indicated, my grubby glove coming to land on a point. "There was a field hospital here previously although it might have been moved," I added with a frown.

Gehler's face immediately showed his alarm. "You can't be serious, Herr Major! You can't expect us to just leave him and pray the Allies will be compassionate. The remaining men will rebel against such an act."

"No. You misunderstand." I locked eyes with Gehler. "I will take Frege to the Allies."

I crouched next to Frege. "You heard my proposal. Our options are limited. If you agree, we can take you to an Allied field hospital. Given the severity of your wounds, it will be necessary for you to remain with there. This will entail you becoming a prisoner of war. Or, we can keep you with us and we will do what we can until can locate a German field hospital. Of course, there is no guarantee either way."

Frege hesitated. The fear of dying was fighting internally with the fear of capture.

He gave a short nod indicating his agreement.

"Herr Major, you are taking a risk for your own safety. You could be captured or killed yourself."

"You are a risk worth taking," I assured him. "Besides, I plan to walk out of there once I secure your care." I looked up at Gehler. "Do what you can to stabilize him, including using the remaining morphine."

I motioned the febel over. I showed Schmidt the hospital's location on the map. "Schmidt, take a man and scout for this Allied field hospital. You are not to attack it or harass it in any way. I only want its location and distance confirmed."

Schmidt looked at the map, studying it intently. He swallowed hard before responding. "Jawohl, Herr Major. We should return within the hour."

Time dragged and I had to restrain myself from checking my watch every few minutes. The scouting party finally returned after forty-five minutes, out of breath.

"The Allied field hospital has moved, but it is not far from its previous location, Herr Major," Schmidt reported. "A Kubelwagon can easily be driven most of the way there without being spotted. The remainder of the way will need to be on foot. The forest will provide cover until you are within a few hundred meters of the hospital camp."

"Any indication you were seen?"

"No, Herr Major. We saw no patrols." Schmidt grinned. "The Allies must be becoming complacent for us to be able to get so close."

"Good job," I complimented him. "You will need to accompany us to lead the way." I approached my remaining men. "Febel Schmidt and I are taking Gefreiter Frege to a nearby Allied field hospital. Two volunteers are needed to accompany us."

All men stepped forward, brave and willing to assist their fellow soldier.

"Neske and Riedel." Neske was young, but had always proven to be calm and efficient in combat and other trying situations. I could trust him to remain unruffled if the Allies should choose not to cooperate.

Riedel was the deadliest marksman I had ever encountered, either in my personal or in my professional life. I was an excellent shot, but my skills paled in comparison. With the sniper rifle, he could not be matched. When I approached the hospital out in the open, I would need him as insurance.

I calculated the time necessary before addressing Hahn.

"Leutnant, if we do not return within two hours, move the remaining men out and return to the nearest Wehrmacht command center for updated orders."

Hahn began to protest.

I silenced him with a wave. "You have your orders. I expect you to follow them."

I motioned for Frege to be placed in the back of a Kubelwagon. I created a white flag by attaching a handkerchief to the radio antenna.

"Gentlemen, I believe the enemy is waiting for us. It is time for us to depart."

I watched for the enemy as Schmidt carefully drove to the area of the Allied hospital. I remembered Africa, when I had been in a similar situation, approaching the enemy for medical supplies.

There was a major difference between now and then, I grimly realized. Previously, I had bargained with Moffitt's life to obtain desperately needed supplies. The decision to release him had been a difficult one for me to make, as I had always considered Moffitt almost as dangerous as Troy. But it had been a necessary evil, critical to saving the lives of my men.

Now, I was offering nothing and asking for something in return.

Schmidt stopped behind a rocky outcropping surrounded by a thicket of trees.

"We've driven as far as we can, Herr Major. We'll need to travel the remainder of the way on foot," he whispered.

Each of us checked our weapons before we started off. I removed the antenna carrying our white flag and handed it to Schmidt. He led the way with Neske and Riedel supporting Frege between them. I brought up the rear, alert for any sign of the enemy.

We had not proceeded far when Schmidt held up his hand. I immediately went to his side. He indicated a narrow opening in the trees. I looked through it and could see the Allied field hospital.

I silently indicated for Frege to be placed down. I handed my sidearm over to Riedel.

"Keep everyone within your sights," I ordered him, my voice low. "You will know when to act. If necessary, you have my permission to operate freely."

"Jawohl, Herr Major," he acknowledged. He began setting up the rifle.

Once Riedel was finished, I nodded to my men. I took a deep breath and exited from the cover of the forest. I began approaching the camp with measured strides, the white flag clearly visible above me.

Several shots were fired into the air indicating for me to halt. I complied and shoved the flag into the ground, waiting. They did not keep me long. Armed soldiers, led by a colonel, appeared almost immediately.

The colonel was a tall man, his long legs making short work of the distance. He stopped several meters from me. Signifying his higher rank, it was an indication for me to approach him.

The Allied colonel was several years older than me. My height, he was more heavily built. Despite the cold, he wore no coat and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. A thick, unlit cigar hung from his mouth. The man was unarmed. I assumed he was the senior medical officer from the hospital.

I took a few steps towards him and saluted. Casually, the man returned my salute with the cigar still between his lips.

The wind was strong, causing my greatcoat to flap and wrap around me.

"Major," he formally addressed me in a deep voice matching his size. "What's the purpose of your visit?" His German was heavily accented. The cigar still clenched between his teeth made him more difficult to understand.

"Sir, I have a seriously wounded man in urgent need of medical care which we are unable to provide him at this time. I desire to entrust him to your care," I answered in his native language.

The colonel removed the cigar, his curiosity overcoming his suspicion. "Oh? You and your injured man wish to surrender?" he asked, no longer speaking in German.

I tilted my head slightly, telegraphing my surprise that he would think to even suggest such a thing. "I have said nothing about our surrender. I am only here to discuss medical treatment for my soldier."

"Let me get this straight. You're demanding for us to treat him when we have our own wounded to look after?"

"I am demanding nothing, Colonel. I am merely requesting for him to be treated, as one soldier would humanely request to another. His condition is dire, but our medic believes he will survive if treated promptly."

The colonel raised his eyebrows slightly, but did not answer.

My anger and frustration began to peak. I had taken an extreme risk in coming here, apparently for nothing.

"Excuse me for believing your country's boast of compassion." I jerked the white flag from the ground. "Colonel."

I gave him a brief salute. Not waiting for him to return it, I turned to leave.

I had only gone a few steps when the colonel called after me.

"Major!" he barked in his deep voice.

I waited a few seconds before turning. "Yes?"

He removed the cigar from his mouth and laughed, shaking his head.

"I have to give you credit, Major, walking in like you did. Unarmed, alone and like you owned the place. Though, I'd bet even money you have a man hidden in the tree line with us in his sights, watching our every move."

I grinned. "And I would congratulate you, Colonel, for winning your bet. I am considered an excellent marksman, but I pale in comparison to the man who currently has you in his sight."

The colonel gave a guffaw in response. There was something about the colonel I was forced to like. I had met few men who could laugh so heartedly and genuinely in the face of death.

"You certainly possess what I would call a set of steel balls."

I merely raised my eyebrows at his suggestion.

The colonel reached into his breast pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes. He tossed them to me. I shook one out and returned the pack to him. Slowly, I reached for my lighter, flicking it open. I stretched out my hand to light his cigar first, maintaining eye contact with him while I did so. He held my gaze as he leaned down to touch his cigar to the flame.

I lit my cigarette and then pocketed the lighter, before returning the pack to him. I tried not to watch hungrily as they disappeared into his pocket.

The two of us smoked quietly for a few minutes. He was the one to break the silence.

"So, let me get this straight: You drop off your wounded soldier and we treat him. If he's as seriously wounded as you've led me to believe, he won't be leaving anytime soon. By default, the man will be surrendering. We're not going to release him in a few weeks to return to the German Army so he can shoot us up again. Does he understand this?"

"He does, as do I. The wounded man has already accepted the fact he will be surrendering to you. It is expected for him to remain and become a prisoner of war."

"Are you looking to stick around while we operate on him?"

"No. I will depart once you have agreed to treat him."

"You trust us enough to do so?" he asked.

"I have had many opportunities during the war to put my trust in your soldiers," I responded. "I trust you will be just as honorable as they have been."

The colonel nodded. "I will be."

The colonel noticed I had finished my cigarette. He tossed the pack to me again. I could not stop myself from eagerly accepting another one. He waved for me to keep the pack. Shamelessly, I slipped it into my pocket. I would share the remainder of them with my men later.

He removed the cigar from his mouth again and gestured with it. "So your man stays with me and in the meantime, you and your helpers walk out of here."

"Yes, you have accurately stated my proposal," I agreed.

The colonel contemplated my confirmation for a few seconds.

"Okay, let's take a look at him." He put two fingers into his mouth and sharply whistled towards the forest where I had emerged.

I knew my men would not respond to an order from the enemy, especially one crudely delivered. They would not emerge without my signal.

I finished my cigarette and threw the butt on the ground, crushing it with boot. I waited a few seconds and then half-turned. I raised my hand and slightly curled my fingers, indicating for my men to approach.

Almost immediately, Schmidt and Neske appeared, supporting Frege between them. The Allied soldiers brought their weapons up, suspicious of a possible trick. It did not take long for my men to reach us. They laid Frege on the ground at our feet.

The colonel bent to examine Frege, unbuttoning his tunic and lifting his blouse. The dressings underneath were stained scarlet. Removing them, he examined the damage. At the careful contact, Frege tried, unsuccessfully, not to wince. The colonel felt Frege's skin and checked his other vital signs. After re-buttoning Frege's tunic, the colonel gave Frege a half smile as he patted his shoulder.

The colonel stood up to address me. "Yep, he's pretty chewed up all right. But, he'll survive. Your medic did a good job handling this, as good I've seen from our side."

I gave the colonel a slight nod of acceptance.

"My German is not the world's best. I want to make sure your wounded man understands my words. Tell him he has my personal guarantee he will be treated well here. He'll receive the same level of care as an Allied soldier. After he recovers, he'll become a prisoner of war and be treated humanely. He's got nothing to fear from us."

I repeated the officer's words to Frege. He looked over to the colonel and gave him a nod of understanding.

The Allied colonel turned and barked an order for his own men to approach.

"Hanson!"

One of the men immediately approached and saluted.

"Go get a stretcher. Then, I want you to take the Major's man to Doc Keaton. He should be on duty and he's got the surgical skill necessary for this type of case."

The man quickly returned with a stretcher. Two men loaded Frege onto it and began carrying him away. I stopped them. I reached down and touched Frege on the shoulder, giving him a smile.

"I am relieved it is finally over," Frege whispered, "even if it ended this way."

"Until after the war," I assured him. I then indicated for the Allied men to take Frege.

Frege would be well taken care of and he would survive the war, thank God.

Schmidt and Neske were behind me. I could sense their uneasiness begin to grow as Frege was carried away.

I turned again to the colonel.

"Colonel, I thank you. Now if you will excuse me, I will return to my men."

"I can tell you are a proud man, Major. It must've been difficult for you to request medical assistance from the enemy."

He glanced at my thin frame, and then at my men who possessed the same gaunt look of hungry scarecrows. "I think I know what the answer is going to be to my next question, but I'm going to ask it anyway. Do you and your men need food?"

Was it so obvious that we were barely surviving on sharply reduced rations?

I could feel my face color at his offer and my hands clench into tight fists.

I was not angry at the colonel, but at myself. To ask for compassion from an enemy I loathed to save a man's life was one thing. But to have the enemy willingly offer us food without us even having to request it? Truly, as Wehrmacht soldiers had we sunk to such a low state?

I hated denying my men, but I could not bring myself to accept his offer. Taking the cigarettes had been one thing, but admitting we wanted for even a basic necessity like food was far different.

"Thank you, Colonel, but we possess sufficient rations," I responded tightly.

"There is no shame in accepting my offer, you know."

I stood there without responding, allowing my silence confirm my previous answer.

The colonel shrugged before he looked at me keenly. "You're not the one who's been hassling and slowing us down as we pursue the tail of your main army, are you?"

"My gratitude for my man's life does not extend to me divulging any military information," I responded, my face blank.

"Yep, I thought you were the one. You have what it takes to conduct that type of warfare." He laughed. "Just wanted to say, that's been a fine bit of soldiering. You're using good guerilla tactics. We didn't even realize you were this deep behind our lines."

I saluted in acknowledgement and turned to leave.

"Major!" he called after me. My men jumped at the sound of his voice, but I remained calm.

I stopped and turned to face him. "Sir?"

"Son, the war is over. The offer of surrender still stands. No matter what your propaganda goons say, you and your men will be treated humanely."

His expression indicated he was sincere. The offer was coming from a place of respect, from one honorable soldier to another.

I answered him, without hesitation. "Understood. But, for a second time, I must decline your offer. Respectfully, of course, Colonel."

"I'll give you an hour's head start before I send out anyone after your team. It'll give you enough time to clear the area and return to Axis lines. But after the hour passes, they'll be all over you like stink on shit."

I gave him a slight nod in gratitude and then left, not looking back.

The three of us quickly returned to where my remaining men were waiting. Hahn's face flooded with relief when we arrived.

"Herr Major! Thank God all of you returned! Your time was almost up. We were preparing to leave in just a few minutes." He looked around and did not see Frege with us. "Gefreiter Frege is with the. . . ?"

"Yes, he is safe with the Allies. He is expected to survive."

My men surrounded me. Their faces were long and drawn, waiting for my orders.

I glanced back in the direction we had come, looking back towards the field hospital where safety was waiting for all of us. It would be easy to end it now. But then, war was never easy.

I turned around and motioned in the opposite direction.

"Our time is limited," I said simply. "We must depart immediately and return to the main Heer."


	11. 1945 - 12 April

"You must return, Dietrich, for a final time."

It took me several seconds to find my voice. "You cannot be serious, Herr Oberst. To do so would be suicide for my men."

We were in a dank basement which was being used as a command center. It was little more than a pit in the ground shored up with rough timbers. The oberst slowly stood and went to a wall where a sliver of light had escaped from an opening.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

"I am not."

A fit of violent coughing seized him. He brought out his handkerchief to cover his mouth. When the coughing subsided and he removed the handkerchief, it was colored brightly with blood.

He noticed me looking. "The war will be the death of all of us, Dietrich, one way or another."

We had continued to fall back deeper into Germany. We were fighting with no heavy weapons to cover our retreat. We had lost the last panzer and .88mm piece almost a fortnight ago. We were now down to small arms. The little ammunition we had remaining was being rapidly depleted. We were forced to continually take weapons and ammunition from the dead to replenish our meager supplies.

"A unit was requested to launch a series of delaying actions against the enemy. The tactic is to provide time for the remaining units to fall back and establish a defensive position."

He continued to look up at the light, his back still to me.

"I volunteered your unit, Dietrich."

"Volunteered?" I repeated. I was beyond words. "Surely, there are other units with more men sufficient for these orders," I countered.

"There are none with your unit's experience. Or, with your level of command."

"Sir, we will be slaughtered! It will be impossible for a small force of men to survive long against such superior forces."

"Yes, but yours is the only unit capable of even remotely performing the task. Your delaying tactic only needs to be brief."

"Given the remaining number of men it will be brief by default," I retorted.

Another fit of coughing overtook him. He leaned against the wall as his body shook from the heaving. I went to assist him, but he angrily waved me away. After a few minutes, the fit subsided and he caught his breath.

"Dietrich, I submitted your promotion to Oberstleutnant. You have served me and Germany well in this war. It is unfortunate, though, you served her through this leader." He paused a moment before continuing. "I pray the war lasts long enough for you to receive the promotion."

I knew I should feel proud at achieving such a level, but I felt nothing. My service to Germany had all been for nothing. A step up in rank at the end of it was a poor consolation prize.

"Thank you, Herr Oberst, but why bother informing me?"

The oberst allowed my question to hang for several seconds before he chose his words carefully.

"I believed you should be aware of the recognition and honor." The obvious answer was left unsaid.

The oberst turned to face me, his face incredibly pale and lined with fatigue. The sorrow was deeply etched on his face. "You have your orders. Now carry them out."

"Jawohl, Herr Oberst."

I gave him a sharp salute.

"God be with you and your men. There is nothing more I can offer you." He studied me for a moment before adding, "Goodbye, Dietrich."

We both knew we would not be seeing each other again.

The faces of my men were grim when I relayed our orders. No words were uttered, but unspoken question among them was the simple "why?" None of them wanted to die when surrender was a foregone conclusion. But Germany's imminent loss would also be its liberation from Nazi tyranny. Dead or alive, we would all be free soon. I could only hope for the Allies to be compassionate enough to allow Germany to rebuild, returning some type of normalcy back into our lives.

We moved out in the pre-dawn darkness while our main army continued retreating. The difficulty of our orders became apparent. It was almost impossible to penetrate and circle back behind the enemy lines. Before we could attack, we were hit hard in the late morning, experiencing active combat for several hours. It was the type of combat where one begins reacting without thinking, forced to rely on training and instincts merely to survive.

Our radio had been hit and we were unable to contact headquarters to report our condition or to request reinforcements. There was nothing more we could achieve against the enemy. And, what we had accomplished was little to nothing. Alone, we were left to be the masters of our own fates.

We seized an opening when it appeared and used it as the opportunity to begin retreating to our own lines.

Soon our remaining half-track was hit and it was necessary to abandon it. We hastily gathered what ammunition we could as the sparks began growing. We escaped as the flames began to intensify. I grabbed the colors before I left.

At the last moment, Hahn began running back to the half-track.

"The official documents! I must retrieve them to prevent them from falling into the enemies hands."

"Leave them!" I ordered. "They are outdated and unimportant now!"

Either Hahn did not hear me or he chose to ignore me. He continued running towards the rapidly burning vehicle.

I swore under my breath and ran after him. I tackled him to the ground as the half-track exploded, showering us with debris. I threw Hahn over my shoulder and made my way back to my remaining men. I dumped him onto the ground and stood over him, breathing heavily from the exertion.

"If you do anything that stupid again, Hahn," I told him. "I'll kill you myself. Do you understand?"

Miserably, Hahn managed to nod.

"If you're going to die, at least die for something worth saving."

Leaving Hahn lying there, I went to take a quick inventory of what remained. The only items we possessed were the uniforms on our backs and the light weapons we carried. We had some ammunition, but nothing to sustain us if we entered an extensive firefight. There was no radio and no rations. All other items had been sacrificed.

My sidearm was missing. I searched around the general vicinity. Either I had lost it in the half-track before escaping or when I had tackled Hahn. There was no time to search for it. I silently swore again. Now we were down by an additional weapon.

Hahn had sufficiently recovered and rose unsteadily to his feet.

"Herr Major, thank you for saving. . ." I waved him off, shaking my head.

"You may thank me later." I looked up at the sky. We had perhaps an hour before darkness fell. It would be too dangerous to move in the dark with so many of the enemy around us. "It is time for us leave."

We silently made our way through the patchy forest. The thickets of trees were uneven from logging and farming. There was still an occasional patch of dirty snow, shielded from the sun by the remaining trees.

We found an abandoned cottage, heavily damaged from some unknown previous conflict. Darkness had already fallen and it was becoming too dangerous to continue moving. I gave the order to stop for the night.

I had the cottage searched, hoping to find something, anything, for my men to eat. There was nothing to be found, not even the smallest kernel of grain. I even had the nearby area searched, hoping to find a hidden garden with edible plants or roots in any stage of growth, but again there was nothing.

Either the previous owners had fled with any remaining food, or other retreating troops had already ransacked the place for provisions. It didn't matter. The end result was the same.

I knew it was time.

By this time tomorrow, it would all be finished. I had no confidence we would be able to reestablish contact with what remained of the German Heer.

I went outside and approached Hahn. "Leutnant, gather the men and have a small fire built behind the cottage," I quietly ordered him. "It is time to burn the colors."

Hahn turned a shade paler under the dirt on his face.

"Herr Major," he said with difficulty. "That means. . ."

"Do it," I ordered him.

His chin rose slightly, a strength emerging from within him. "Jawohl," Hahn said in a tight voice.

I would not have our colors captured by the enemy and paraded as a sign of victory and domination. No, even now though my journey was coming to an end as a German officer, I still honored the oath I had sworn to the Nazi regime eleven years ago.

It took only a few minutes for a small fire to be lit. The men solemnly stood around it. My order to have the colors burned clearly indicated the end was very near.

Febel Schmidt called the men to attention. They stood there, ramrod straight, while he handed me the tightly folded colors.

I glanced down at the flag. The formerly deep scarlet had faded to a muddied red. I could see several rips and tears within its dirty folds. Yet, as worn as it was, I could still feel the power the flag had once represented. The enemy wanted to capture its power and contain it.

My sense of duty compelled me to do what was necessary to forever deny them this victory.

I stepped forward, gently placing it on the fire. I snapped a salute as the flag caught fire. My men followed suit. We held our salutes for the few minutes it took for the flag to be completely consumed by the flames.

I completed my salute. Schmidt dismissed the men and they retreated in silence. He gathered the ashes into a container he had found in the yard. Schmidt had already dug a deep hole underneath a dormant geranium bush in the rear of the garden. He placed the container in the hole and buried it without speaking.

Schmidt smoothed the ground and placed a few small stones over the site before he joined me. We both saluted again before Schmidt departed to see to the men.

I stood staring at the grave. It was the only time I had ordered my colors to be burned. I vowed I would never allow it to happen again.

Hahn approached me and spoke to me in a low voice. "Herr Major, we have been through much together the last few years and I would never speak up in front of the men."

"No, Leutnant," I said. "It is not necessary for me to hear your thoughts. I already know what you will say."

"But, Sir, perhaps it is time," he continued, placing aside my words. "We've accomplished much more than what could possibly be expected of us by any army. What purpose can it possibly serve to continue? You've already had the colors burned which can only mean one thing. The war is over for us, probably tomorrow. Germany will surrender in a few weeks at most."

I studied his face. He was so eager for me to say the words, but I could not, and would not, agree to them. As much as I knew them to be true, I would not surrender. Not now, not willingly.

"The unknown can be unsettling, Leutnant, especially during such tumultuous times as these. But we must continue to carry out valid orders to the best of our ability until they no longer carry any authority."

I looked at him, pausing before continuing.

"No, Leutnant. We will not be surrendering while I remain in command."

Hahn swallowed hard, while he tried to put his thoughts into words. "I don't want to be captured by the Bolsheviks, Herr Major," he said quietly. "I don't want to be paraded as a war prize before being shipped off to captivity in Siberia where I'll be worked to death in revenge, my burial place an unknown ditch. I want to die with honor as a soldier." His face was pale, but beneath his pallor Hahn looked to me for salvation.

I put my hands on his shoulders to reassure him.

"I will take care of the both of us if we should arrive at that point."

Hahn nodded, once again so easily placing his faith in me.

As we walked back to join the other men at the cottage, I could only hope God and fate would allow me to keep my promise to him.

The others were already cleaning their weapons, preparing for the next day. Schmidt established a watch schedule for the night which would take us through until morning. There was little talk among them. There was nothing to say.

I sat on the ground with my back to the wall, cleaning my own weapon. When I was satisfied with it, I carefully placed my rifle aside. I glanced up. Something on the opposite wall piqued my interest. I slowly arose, looking for something to stand on.

I found a battered box and stepped up onto it, peering into the cupboard. On the top shelf, pushed to the far back corner, was a battered coffee pot. It struck me as odd. By this time, I had the attention of men, who were wondering what I was doing.

By the flame of my lighter, I closely peered around the pot, believing it could be booby trapped. I brought out a pencil stub from my pocket, using it to feel around it. Not coming across any wires, I reached up and gently took the pot down.

I peered inside.

I gasped at the fortune which laid within.

"Herr Major, what is it? What did you find?" asked Richter. The other men joined us in the kitchen, gathering around me.

"Is it Rita Hayworth?" one joked.

A smile creased my face. "Your guess is closer than you might realize," I responded. "The object is American made. Not a red-haired woman. But perhaps, even more desirable at this moment." I gingerly reached in to remove the treasure. I cradled it within my hand, before replacing the pot on the shelf.

There were additional gasps from my men when they saw what I had found. I stepped off the box to the floor, and was immediately surrounded.

For, nestled in my battered glove, was an American Hershey's bar.

"Are there any more? Is there any other food up there? Maybe Rita Hayworth also managed to squeeze herself in?" called out Helmut which brought forth loud laughter.

"Nothing else. But we should enjoy the good fortune which was provided to us."

We all stood staring in awe at the simple treasure. I imagined the chocolate had been hidden by the cottage occupants. When they fled from the approaching Allies, they had forgotten it.

I carefully unwrapped the bar as if it was the most fragile object. I peeled back the inner wrappings, revealing the chocolate. I broke the bar into equal pieces, giving one to each man.

I kept the final piece.

"Bon appetit."

I placed the chocolate on my tongue and it immediately began to melt.

I closed my eyes in bliss, enjoying its delicious taste. It had been months since I had enjoyed the warm pleasure of chocolate.

In a flash, it brought back memories of long ago, recollections of sinful chocolate covered strawberries and a dry champagne enjoyed enjoyed after ravenous sex with a woman. When they had run out, it had been so easy to merely have more sent to my suite to be enjoyed after the next round of sex.

All too soon the chocolate melted away, along with my memories of an easier life. I slowly opened my eyes to see the same ecstasy and memories etched on the faces of my men.

I hesitated to break the moment, but it was necessary.

"Tomorrow will come soon enough. I suggest all of us rest while we have the opportunity."

They all returned to their places, and I to mine next to the wall. I closed my eyes for a moment to rest.

The brief memories of my decadent prewar lifestyle were soon replaced by the harsh reality of the present. I reopened my eyes.

I had to restrain myself from laughing out loud. How did I, Hans Erich Dietrich, the recipient of the Iron Cross with Oak Leaves, fourth in my academy class, wealthy son of a successful general and a prominent socialite mother, end up in such a deplorable situation, in such a sorry place, serving with such a disgraceful regime for my beloved Germany?

Here we were in an abandoned German cottage, the roof mostly gone, its shredded curtains flapping in the wind. Once, this had been someone's home. The residents had long abandoned it, yet here I was with the remnants of my unit, the final grouping of men I would ever command.

Including the guard on duty, there were seven of us remaining. Seven was considered a lucky number. I disdained those who placed their future in the hands of luck, but it was luck and strength which would have to suffice when we went out again at dawn.

I noticed with a start that the six men remaining were the exact men who had accompanied me to Rhodes to kidnap Miles Simmons. I shook my head wryly. What a coincidence.

I had never believed in coincidences, but without warning, my dream of Troy suddenly invaded my thoughts. I clearly remembered how he had told me to leave Rhodes immediately and to take my men with me. In turn, he had promised me all of them would survive the war.

Odd, after not thinking about Troy for months, he was becoming the focus of my attention with more frequency.

Anger rose within me for believing such nonsense, a guarantee of surviving from Specter Troy. We were caught in a small pocket behind enemy lines. Would our current lives qualify as surviving? Living hardly better than animals with the hunter not far behind us?

As much as I had given Hahn my gallant words of carrying on, I knew of our fates tomorrow.

I looked around at my men. They were exhausted, and even in their fitful sleep there were haunted looks on their faces. Their tattered clothing hung on thin frames occasionally racked by an ill cough. Except for the chocolate, when was the last time we had eaten? Two, or was it three, days? It was better for there to be nothing to eat, I tried to convince myself. One grew used to hunger. It was only when one had food did it become overwhelming and obsessive.

All our gaunt faces were covered by stubble. Who had the luxury to shave and for what purpose did it serve? Long, scraggly hair escaped our covers. Our attempts at barbering had done little more than to butcher it and did nothing to stop the spread of lice. I could see them absently scratching themselves, a reminder of the hellish little parasites which covered us all.

Yes, this was the end. It was the end for all of us. There could be no other end after all that had happened over the last five and a half years.

I would be sharing the fate of my remaining men.

One way or another, the war would end for all of us by sunset tomorrow.


	12. 1945 – 13 April - morgen

I slept little during the night.

I was constantly alert for any change in the combat situation. I met all the returning guards, wanting to receive an immediate status update from each of them. On two occasions, I went with the guards to the perimeter to personally verify the conditions and to confirm the enemy was not on the move.

I looked out into the darkness, my eyes straining to see any movement. The Allies might not yet be advancing, but they were out there, waiting for us beyond my line of sight. They knew we were here, along with the few other remaining German forces separated from the main Heer. The Allies also knew we were unwilling to surrender, more than willing to fight for our lives and to die for what little remained of Germany.

The Allies would be patient. They could afford to be, since they had nothing but time to their advantage. They would move when they were ready and there would be nothing we could do to halt them.

My men sensed my uneasiness, despite my attempts to conceal it. As their commanding officer, they looked to me for leadership and motivation. For the first time in my career, I had nothing to offer them in the way of hope. At this near conclusion of the war, I refused to blindly repeat the party rhetoric about turning the tide.

Again, I encouraged my men to rest while they still had the opportunity. Few did so. Most of us remained awake for much of the night. The men said little among themselves, each keeping their own company, each lost in the thoughts and fears of what the dawn would bring us.

The men knew tomorrow would inevitably bring our end, one way or another. Germany might survive a few weeks longer. We would not.

The night became colder. It began to rain. Becoming heavy shortly after midnight, the downpour continued relentlessly throughout the early morning hours. While it made us more miserable, I viewed it as an opportunity which would help cover our escape. The storm clouds and rain would provide us additional darkness when we attempted to break from cover.

Despite the misery of being soaked to the bone, we would need any and every advantage we could seize, if we had any hope of rejoining what remained of the Wehrmacht.

Perhaps, we would be able to survive the morrow after all.

The few remaining hours before dawn passed swiftly. I ordered my men to move out before any more lightness appeared. They silently gathered their weapons and readied themselves mentally. A few crossed themselves, their lips murmuring a silent prayer. For the sake of my men, I hoped for either a second chance or for more time. Short of either, I prayed for good fortune to enable their escape.

I took one last look at the cottage and the surrounding area, memorizing its location for the future. If I survived, I vowed to return for the remains of our colors, and to properly inter them. With an inner smile, I also vowed to replace the stolen Hershey's Bar and, if possible, to discover its story.

We had been on the move for nearly two hours. I looked back to see the dawn. The sun briefly crested behind the peaks before disappearing behind an increasing cloud cover. The advantage we had held during the early morning hours slowly dissipated the lighter it became.

I turned around and marched forward into the future. The past behind me no longer existed.

I was beginning to believe we would make it when I heard the quiet but hurried footsteps of the rear guard. His hasty return could only mean one thing. The enemy was on the move and not far behind us. I fell back to meet him.

"Herr Major! The Allies! They are approaching rapidly from the south west," the gefreiter whispered, his eyes darting behind us like the Devil himself was in pursuit.

"What is the enemy's strength?" I asked, keeping my eyes on his.

"A battalion at least. And they are accompanied by tanks and heavy artillery." Fear showed con his face. "Too many for us to go up against them."

My blood ran cold. I knew we could not possibly hold off an enemy of this size and strength. We must avoid any combat with them.

It was critical for me to have more details. "What is their location?"

"From the rear, and along both flanks. Their infantry is moving so rapidly we are in danger of being encircled."

"What is the timeframe?" I pressed.

He hesitated before answering. "We have at the most twenty to thirty minutes."

I looked in the direction I knew the Allies were approaching.

Their troops would be fresh and well supplied. The trees were beginning to thin, enabling the tanks and artillery to increase their speed.

Twenty minutes was the more likely scenario.

I ordered the pace of our retreat to increase. I fell back, protecting the rear, while Hahn took the lead. The tree cover continued to decrease, exposing our presence. Backtracking was an impossibility. We had no choice but to cross the open ground. We needed to find deeper cover forward of us to stand even a remote chance of escaping.

Twenty minutes from the guard's warning, we started to become overrun. The enemy had the advantage of strength and speed, and little need of finding cover.

We came under fire shortly afterwards. My men showed no panic and continued their orderly retreat. They fired only when targets became visible, not wasting their limited ammunition.

Everything around me slowed down. It was as if I was watching a film of another soldier's final moments. I could hear the bullets rush past me, hitting the trees, causing splinters to rain upon us. My men were yelling, their cries echoed by those of the enemy. Above the din, I could hear my labored breathing and my heart pounding. I could feel the recoil of my rifle, but oddly, I could not hear the sound of it firing.

My rifle seized.

I cursed its worn components for failing me at such a critical moment. Calmly, but urgently, I worked to unjam it. Before I could clear it, I was hit hard in my lower right shoulder with a large caliber round. It caused me to stumble and to drop my rifle.

I looked down at the jagged entrance wound. Blood was already beginning to escape. It was painful, but survivable. The wound was a mere scratch compared to others I had received over the last five years.

It was still possible for me to continue covering my men while they escaped.

I glanced over my shoulder. My men and Hahn were almost to the tree line. Good.

A few of the enemy were now coming into view. I expected to be hit a second time. Seeing me alone in the open, the enemy hesitated, suspecting they were stumbling into an ambush.

Fools. I used their uncertainty to my advantage.

Recovering, I picked up my rifle with my left hand. Miraculously, I unjammed it and rapidly fired. I brought down three of the enemy soldiers, clearing the area. I willed myself to follow my men, resuming my own retreat, but the thick, dark mud pulled at my boots, making my progress difficult.

Any fears the enemy possessed about me leading them into a supposed trap soon dissipated.

I was hit again by an unseen marksman who was using the trees to his advantage. My second wound was in my upper inner thigh. My body twisted at the round's impact. Two hits, but nothing vital had been struck, I reassured myself. It was still possible to escape.

Their aim was poor if they hadn't killed me with two shots, but I knew it would improve as the distance continued to narrow.

It was now critical for me to reach the trees if I was to have any chance of surviving.

I staggered a few steps, again dropping my weapon. This time, it fell out of my reach. I attempted to retrieve it, but I had no strength remaining.

No matter how much as I willed myself to do so, it was impossible for me to continue farther. I sank to my knees before collapsing to the ground.

I was now unarmed and completely vulnerable, out in the open.

The warm blood pooled inside my trouser leg, its stickiness causing my uniform to adhere to my body. I highly suspected that a vein or an artery had been hit, making this wound much more serious than the first one.

I could feel the pain rising even through the rush of adrenaline which still coursed through me.

Hahn had sensed I was no longer behind him. He turned to see what had happened to me. His eyes grew wide when he saw me prone on the ground.

"Herr Major!" Hahn yelled in alarm. He stopped in the open, dangerously subjecting himself to the enemy fire. My remaining men had made it to the safety of the trees. They were soon out of sight, unaware their two officers had been separated from them.

I frantically waved Hahn off. It would be suicidal for him to return for me.

I found the strength to yell over the noise and chaos.

"No! Leave me! See to the men and then save yourself!"

He ignored my orders and fell back, in a low weaving motion, somehow evading the enemy fire.

"This is very stupid of you, Hahn," I told him angrily, all the while touched by his loyalty. "I warned you not to do something so idiotic again."

"Yes, Herr Major," Hahn said. "But you also told me, if I was going to die, to at least do it for something worth saving."

Hahn heaved me up by my arms and threw me over his shoulder. He then recovered my rifle and slung it over his other shoulder. He began moving towards the denser cover.

The enemy was rapidly approaching. They were so near we could clearly hear their shouts and cries in the distance.

My weight slowed Hahn down. He had almost made it to the deeper thicket when he was struck. He collapsed immediately. I was thrown to the ground ahead of him.

I landed hard on a patch of snow under a large tree.

I attempted to rise to check on Hahn. A mortar shell exploded near me. Even before I heard the explosion, I felt my left side sliced open. The shrapnel had viciously ripped through my uniform, cutting its way deep into tissue and muscle. The remains of my uniform became saturated with blood.

Without emotion, I accepted I had been mortally wounded.

The pain from my final wound welled. It was excruciating, unlike anything which I had ever felt. It was much more intense than the pain from the two other wounds I had received earlier. Even the wounds I had received at Jufra paled in comparison. I fell back, unable to move, my blood instantly staining the snow crimson.

Weakly, I turned my head. Hahn was sprawled a few meters from me. He was still alive. He raised his head, his eyes locking with mine. He managed to slowly crawl over to my side to join me beneath the tree. He grasped my hand and gently squeezed it with a slight smile, giving the both of us some solace during our final moments as Wehrmacht soldiers.

"Ah, Herr Major, we were both so close to surviving the war!" he said while squeezing my hand again.

Hahn soon lost consciousness, still clasping my hand. I maintained our grip, wanting to feel a connection to something, anything, which was still alive.

For the first time since I had been assaulted by Guest two years ago, I welcomed and wanted the touch of another man.

I knew it would not be long before I joined Hahn in unconsciousness. Already I had lost a large quantity of blood. I could feel the blackness overcoming me.

We were soon overrun by the enemy infantry who were pursuing my men. They swarmed past where we were lying, ignoring us. Why kill us a second time when there were other Germans available to be killed?

As a soldier, I could not fault their logic.

Several of the Allied soldiers collapsed under fire. At these final moments, I was proud my men were still able to resist capture.

Enemy tanks were rapidly approaching in the distance. The sound was deafening. I wanted to place my hands over my ears like a child to blot out their thunderous sound, but I had not the strength to do so.

The tanks passed so dangerously near us, I could see the gears working in their tracks. They had been forced to detour around our tree. If it had not been there to shield us, we would have been ground into the earth, like so many others before us.

The battle soon passed, leaving us with no company except for the other fallen warriors. The ground was littered with the dead and the dying. There were few sounds from them before they, too, fell silent. We had all been so close to surviving the war.

The last thing I thought before losing consciousness was how peaceful and restful it was under the tree. What a lovely place to die. The time had come.

I had lost everything else I possessed on this Earth. Why not add my life to the forfeitures?

Today was my thirty-third birthday.


	13. 1945 – 13 April - mittag

Through my fog of pain, I heard a man whistling. Gradually, I regained consciousness, wondering who was producing the tune. As badly rendered as it was, it took me a few moments to recognize it. It was the old English folk song "This Old Man".

I was barely able to lift my head to survey my surroundings. Hahn was still lying on his back where he had fallen. I was unable to see how seriously he was wounded. Though, I could see his chest still barely rising. His hand remained clasped with mine.

With effort, I managed to squeeze his hand, providing us with some comfort.

While the area was scattered with dead Allied soldiers, we were the only German soldiers, alive or dead, I could see in the vicinity. There was at least a slight possibility my men had managed to escape and reunite with a different German unit.

A lone Allied enemy soldier emerged from the trees, surveying the area. He had his rifle loosely slung over his shoulder and his helmet was pushed back on his head. He appeared generally unconcerned about being alone, obviously not expecting any opposition.

My first thought was that he was assisting the wounded, or he was the front man for a burial detail. I noticed he was not wearing a Red Cross armband.

The soldier's actions soon showed his true motive.

Still whistling, he stopped at each dead soldier. Methodically, he searched them for anything of value. First their packs, then their pockets, finally their bodies. Money, watches, jewelry, any miscellaneous items which struck his fancy, they all found their way into his pack.

I watched as he approached Hahn and myself. The soldier's whistling immediately stopped and he swung his rifle around when he noticed we were still alive. He continued to cover us until he was certain we were incapable of being a threat.

He kicked my rifle aside before squatting down. He pushed his helmet back farther. Grinning broadly, he showed his poor teeth.

"Well, lookee here! Looks like we got ourselves an almost dead Kraut major. Let's see how bad you're wounded."

The soldier looked at my massive side wound with interest. He proceeded to stick his grimy fingers into it and waggle them. As the violation continued, despite myself, I cried out in pain. He laughed and withdrew his fingers, covered in bright red. The man proceeded to mark each of my cheek bones with my own blood, admiring his artwork with a grin. He then wiped his fingers on my greatcoat.

I remembered back to the fox hunt. What was it? Nine, ten years? Now I was being marked with my own blood before my death. Ah, that bitch Alice's wish was coming true. It pained me she would have the last laugh.

Particularly when she hadn't even been that satisfying in bed.

"And you weren't taken down alone," the soldier said, as if his words would be a comfort. "Let's see who your little fallen buddy is." He looked more closely and saw our hands were still intertwined.

"Damn dirty Krauts. Nothing but a couple of faggots. Can't say I'm surprised. I can only imagine what the two of you were doing in your tents when it was dark and you thinking no one could hear all your grunting and groaning."

He kicked our hands apart and then rolled Hahn over with his boot. No wonder Hahn was barely alive: He had taken a large hit to his lower back, right above his kidneys. His greatcoat was heavily stained with blood and matted with dirt and debris from the ground.

"Your lieutenant boyfriend is barely alive, too," he smirked. "I bet you two ran off and left your men so you could screw each other one last time. Despicable." He shook his head in disgust. "But what else would one expect from a couple of queer officers? Serves you right, how you're both dying. The world doesn't need your type. Or any Germans, for that matter," he added thoughtfully. "And just to show you what a nice guy I am, I'm going to help you two on your way. But first, you gotta pay the piper."

He began whistling again as he searched Hahn. He slipped off Hahn's watch before he took out the thin wallet. It possessed only a few paper Reichsmarks.

"Meh," the thief uttered, but he pocketed them nonetheless before casually tossing the wallet on the ground. "No value, but good for a souvenir. Nothing else," he muttered.

He turned his attention to me.

"You're a major. You'll have something more than a lieutenant."

I almost laughed at the irony. I had nothing. The man crouching next to me was the reason why I had sent my personal possessions home so many months before.

The thief began searching me. He soon found the lighter in my breast pocket.

Weakly, I grabbed his wrist to stop him, but he easily pulled it away from me.

"Nope, it's mine now. You'll have no use for it soon enough. I gotta get mine while the getting is still good."

He gave a low whistle as he examined it. "Sweet," he said in a low voice, greed written across his face. "I can get a pretty penny for it. Hope it still works, be worth more that way." He took out his cigarettes and put one in his mouth. He flicked open my lighter and used it. He snapped the lighter shut before opening it again, fascinated with it as if it was a toy.

"Not German," he said examining the workmanship. "Looks like this pretty bauble is Limey made. And with a name engraved on it like 'James Lyon', I'm pretty sure I'm right."

I watched with sadness as the lighter disappeared into his trouser pocket. It had now been taken from me a second time. This time, I had lost it forever.

"Just to be on the safe side in case I'm caught, let's just take a peek to be sure you're not Mr. Lyon."

He ripped open the top of my tattered greatcoat and reached into my tunic and blouse.

"Eww, lice," he muttered when he saw the vermin swarming. He brushed the lice from his hand. They promptly reentered my uniform. "You're such a filthy German pig. And you stink to hog-heaven like one, too." He chuckled at his joke.

His dirty hand then broke the chain holding my identification disc. He looked at it briefly before dangling it in front of face, swinging it slowly back and forth. He dropped the disc on my chest and then stood up.

"No name, just an ID number." He laughed. "Doesn't matter. My gut tells me that you're not the Limey on the lighter." He tapped the ash from his cigarette onto me. "How about the pay book you Krauts always carry? It would confirm who you are and, not to mention, make a real nice souvenir."

He began roughly patting all my pockets, looking for the pay book. I doubted he would find it. It had fallen into the lining of my greatcoat through a parted seam. It was nestled at the bottom hem.

It was obvious the thief was becoming frustrated at not finding anything else of value.

"No medals? You must have been a flop of a major, a ninety-day wonder. I would have thought you would have more stuff. Don't they pay you Kraut majors much?"

He looked at me for an answer, but I said nothing.

"What's a matter? Don't understand English? Or cat got your tongue?" He reached down and pried open my mouth, peering inside.

"Still got your tongue," he said, obviously feeling clever with himself.

He started to release my mouth before prying it open again. "Any gold in there?" He peered closely. "Nothing." He roughly pushed my face away.

I turned to face him, my eyes filled with hatred.

"You must have something more!" He redoubled his search. "Except for the lighter, I got nothing from you, Goddamn it!"

I watched him silently, my eyes blazing. I would not demean myself by saying anything to him, or by begging him for my life.

The man's hands were rough as he sought something, anything, else from me. He callously forced me onto my wounded side so he could check my back trouser pockets. I had to bite my lips to stop myself from crying out again in agony.

As his desperate greed frantically increased, he began cursing at me.

"You cock sucking, Kraut! You gotta have something to make my efforts worthwhile. Where's the loot hiding? Give it to me or I'll cut off your balls. Is that what you want? Trust me, I'll do it!"

He ripped open the remainder of my greatcoat and lifted my tunic to expose my trousers. He then pulled out his combat knife and savagely stuck it into the ground next to me as a warning before resuming his search.

I pretended not to understand his vulgar threat. I looked away, staring up into the sky.

I hoped he would miss the only other possession I had with me, but when he searched my tunic's inner breast pocket, he found Agathe's photograph.

He took her small photograph and smirked at it, holding it in front of me. With my last remaining strength, I took hold of the photograph to prevent him from stealing it.

He easily took it away from me. "Hey, baby. How ya doing?"

The man smirked and mugged at her lovely countenance.

"Pretty, even though I prefer long hair. But a dirty Kraut cunt all the same. I'm sure she'd be good for a quick screw in a side alley. I'd show her a real man." He grabbed his crotch and moved his hips in a rocking motion.

He looked at the photograph a final time before he proceeded to rip it into small pieces.

Laughing, he then sprinkled them over me. They fell softly to my chest like snowflakes.

For one of the few times in my adult life, tears formed in my eyes. It was like I was losing Agathe all over again.

"Wadaya crying for, you idget? She's probably already spread her legs for a hundred enlisted grunts. We're twice the men you officers are," he added, laughing again.

He took a final drag on the cigarette. He then proceeded to slowly stub it out on my hand.

I could smell my burning flesh and closed my eyes against the searing pain.

Do not cry out, I chastised myself. This is nothing when compared against the other wounds.

The thief slowly stood up and stretched.

"Well, it's been fun, but it's time to end the party. I need to head back before I'm missed. Besides, business is waiting and it'll be drying up what with the war ending any day now."

He picked up my fallen rifle and armed it. With a half-smile, he took a step forward, and aimed it at me.

"Fuck you to Hell, Major Kraut," he said with a sneer. "Maybe next time you guys will think twice before starting another war."

I looked fearlessly at him, daring him with a smile of my own.

"No, fuck _you_ to Hell, Private Dickhead," I returned in my perfect English, "and fuck all you Goddamn Amis. I curse you all along with your bastard country."

A look of rage crossed his face and he angrily pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

He quickly rearmed the weapon and again pulled the trigger with the same result. My rifle must have jammed again when Hahn had dropped it.

I laughed at his predicament.

In disgust, the thief threw it aside.

He then picked up his own rifle and armed it. He brought it up and took aim at me with a snarl.

I looked up at him, my eyes hard and unflinching.

"Go ahead, you Ami prick. Pull the trigger and be done with it. You're the one who possesses no balls," I told him in a cold voice. "Kill me and place another notch on your rifle."

A smile crept across his thin lips as he lowered the rifle.

"You knew what I was saying to ya all along." Obviously, he really truly believed himself to be clever. "I want you to get this: I'm not going to kill you and put you out of your misery. You're gonna die here, alone and in agony. Should take the next several hours," he grinned at me. "But I'm gonna leave you with a few presents to remember me by."

He proceeded to savagely kick me twice in the ribs, breaking a few with his heavy boot. Reflexively, I attempted to curl up to protect myself, but I was unsuccessful. He then kneeled beside me and struck me hard several times in the face with his fist, breaking my nose and battering my face.

His anger finally satiated, he stopped beating me. He squatted beside me. I could smell his rancid breath.

"You win this round, Major Kraut. I could kill you and your faggot boyfriend with shots from a well-made American rifle, but I'm going to give you a break. You're still a dead man and you're getting what you deserve for supporting your Heil Hitler. It's too bad you can only die once. You won't last to see the sun set."

He reached over and pulled his knife from the ground and returned it to its sheath.

"Just to show you that I'm such a decent guy, I'll leave you with your balls so you can go to hell as a man. As an added bonus, I'll leave your dog tags. Make the burial team's job easier. That way, that cute little bitch in the picture won't have to wonder if you're dead. She can be guilt free about how she's screwed so many other guys over the last five years while you were away."

Hate emanated from his eyes as the private looked at me a final time.

He then turned and walked away, whistling the same farcical tune he had been when he had arrived.


	14. 1945 – 13 April – nach mittag

I looked up at the sky, watching as the rain poured down. Occasional bolts of lightning flashed above me. I closed my eyes, better to combat the extreme pain.

As I wove in and out of consciousness, my mind wandered to the past.

I thought back to July 1934 when the fortune teller had predicted my future. As per her predictions, one by one my friends had perished in the war. I had been notified of each of their deaths by the delicate scent of her jasmine perfume. It had never failed to manifest, and I knew by the second death of Ellery not to question its accuracy.

Now that it was my turn to join my brothers in death, why was the jasmine not visiting me? Was I to be denied it? I kept waiting for it to announce my end, but it alluded me. Was the heavy rain masking it? I deeply desired the comfort of its sweet smell, enveloping me and granting me peace.

I begged for it to appear to release me from my tremendous pain.

As time passed without meaning, I could hear the soft crunch of boots on melting snow as they approached me. I could sense a man crouching next to me. It must be the thief. He must have changed his mind and had returned to kill me.

I slowly opened my eyes and saw the man was Perkins. He was dressed in a khaki blouse and shorts, as if he was still in the desert. He didn't seem to mind the cold weather in the least. But then again, why should he since he was dead?

Perkins' face was unusually compassionate. It was an expression I had never seen him direct towards me. The bruises caused by his beating in my camp had faded until they were only faint splotches on his skin.

I noticed a second man, also dressed for the desert campaigns, approaching. It was Lyon, his face tight and drawn in what I would consider typical British stoicism. He approached Hahn and knelt to examine him, probing to discover the extent of the wounds.

Perkins took a surprisingly snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from my mouth. He then buttoned my greatcoat, providing me some warmth and protection against the bad weather.

I gave Perkins a wry smile as I looked up at him.

"It's been quite a while since I've had the pleasure, Perkins. Not since May 1943, almost two years past. You've certainly kept your distance."

"Yes, Captain, you are correct. The last time we saw one another was in Guest's lovely little abode of a dungeon. You managed to escape from it with Sergeant Troy right nicely. You didn't need our help after all."

"You did mention the back door in passing, which enabled our escape."

He shrugged. "True."

Perkins didn't say anything for a few minutes. "You haven't needed us again until now, have you?"

"You were rather bitter about the delay I caused you during our last meeting. I'm not keeping the two of you from sex on the beach, or heaven forbid, lavender tea cakes, am I?" I half-heartedly joked.

"No, you're not, Captain," Perkins shook his head. "I truly have all the time in the world for you today."

I gave a bitter laugh. "Unfortunately, I do not have much time for you. Not given my current circumstances." My eyes locked with his. "I won't be escaping this time, Perkins."

Perkins gave a small nod. "You are in a rather bad way."

My attempt at laughter gave way to an agonizing cough. "That's a typical English understatement, given the fact I am dying. What is the status of my unit, Perkins? The five remaining men?"

"They will survive the war. They're safe and have already become POWs. They were captured by the Americans rather than the Soviets. They always believed it was lucky to be under your command. Today, their beliefs were confirmed."

"And Hahn?"

Perkins looked over to Lyon. Lyon said nothing which provided Perkins with his answer.

"Hahn is dying," Perkins replied simply. "He should pass right around when the sun sets."

"Everything revolves around the setting sun with you, Perkins," I joked. "You really should attempt to be more original."

He smiled faintly. "Still being difficult, Captain? Even in your current state? Some things never change, including you. I suppose I would be disappointed if you had. It certainly would eliminate our interesting conversations."

"I am now a major, with a promotion to Oberstleutnant in process," I replied, irritated. "Didn't you receive the memo up above? If anyone should know, it should have been you. You _are_ assigned to me as my guardian angel."

"True. I did receive notice of your promotions. I can assure you there was no insult intended. I am right proud of how things turned out for you. But to me, you will always be known as 'Captain'. It's like your given name."

I already knew the answer to my next question, but still, I felt compelled to ask. "You have informed me about Hahn's condition. And myself?"

"Also dying," he responded without hesitation.

"Don't tell me it will be when the sun sets. Surely, you can be more original? As least allow me to witness one final dusk," I said, trying to make light of the situation.

"The dusk I can grant you, but it will be unpleasant while you wait for it."

Perkins' eyes were piercing. "You asked about your men before inquiring about yourself. Again, I commend you for putting your men first, Captain."

I shuddered as a spasm of intense pain sliced through me. I closed my eyes tightly until it lessened. After a few minutes, it became tolerable.

"You in pain?" Perkins asked, gravely.

"Yes." I steadied myself against it. "As one would expect given my wounds. You be the judge to what I am experiencing." I could hear Hahn moaning, in and out of consciousness. "And Hahn's pain, Lyon?"

For the first time Lyon spoke. "He's also in severe pain."

Guilt filled me. "Hahn would have escaped if he hadn't returned for me."

"Yes, he would have," Perkins agreed. He paused before continuing. "Captain, we have the ability to assist just one of you regarding the pain. . ."

I answered without hesitation. "Take Hahn's pain away. His death is of my doing. Let him die in peace."

"As you wish, Captain."

Perkins gave a nod to Lyon. Lyon reached down and gently touched Hahn's cheek with his smudged fingers. Hahn visibly relaxed. For a brief second, I feared he was gone. But instead, he was deeply sleeping, his chest regularly rising and falling, his face relaxed and free of the all-consuming agony.

There were several bolts of lighting, briefly brightening the growing darkness. The accompanying thunder was loud, preventing us from speaking.

When it had quieted, I spoke. "My wounds are the same as Lyon's when I came across him at Jufra. It is as you predicted in the desert, Perkins."

"Yes, they mirror his. I have not been wrong yet, Captain, not about any of my predictions."

"Have you been told how you possess a certain smugness, Perkins, regarding being right?"

"You would not be the first to have told me," he admitted with a wide grin. "Adrian's been complaining about losing pints to me."

I turned my attention to the other man. "Lyon?"

He moved to kneel beside me.

"Yes, Captain?"

"I was willing to perform a mercy killing on you. I am requesting for you to return the courtesy. My pain is overwhelming. Allow me to die as a man and as a soldier."

Lyon glanced at Perkins.

Perkins shook his head slightly.

"Captain, I'm unable to authorize such an act. We're not here for such reasons."

"Heroin? A simple overdose? Provide me the materials and I will prepare the drug myself. I would like to feel its delicious pleasure one last time. I enjoyed it so much during the brief time I experienced it. At least give me a pleasurable death, such as the one Guest promised me. Surely you can match him?"

Lyon again looked at Perkins who shook his head for the second time. "No heroin overdose, Captain. Not then, not now."

I laughed at the bitterness of the situation. "Then it will be a long afternoon, gentlemen. Are you allowed to at least share a fag with me, Lyon?"

"Of course," Lyon said with a strained smile. "That I'm able to offer you."

"Hopefully, you have matches. I held on to your lighter until this morning, when an Allied souvenir hunter took it. I apologize for its loss, Lyon. Now, for a second time."

"No worries, I have matches to go along with the fags."

He pulled a pack of American Lucky Strike cigarettes and matches from his pocket. He shook out two cigarettes and lit one for both of us. He placed it between my lips since I had not the strength to hold it.

"The lighter has had an interesting history the short time you possessed it, hasn't it?" Lyon commented while he smoked. He appeared unconcerned about its loss. "You took very good care of it while it was in your possession. I and my father thank you for your efforts. I dare say, though, you will forever be its only master. I don't believe it ever actually belonged to me. It seemed like it was always waiting for you to own it. Ah, well! Things in life have a way of coming full circle."

God, the cigarette tasted so good. I drew the smoke deep into my lungs, holding it for a few seconds before allowing it to escape. The nicotine calmed me and gave me strength. Occasionally, Lyon would shake the ash from it until I was finished. He then took the butt from my lips and pushed it into the ground.

"Perkins?"

"Captain?"

"See to my family. I have no idea where they are, or if they're even alive."

"I can assure you your family is safe and will remain so in Coburg. Coburg will surrender soon, but will be in the American zone of occupation. They will have a difficult time for the first year after the war, but will emerge stronger afterwards. And I might add, much wealthier." Perkins gave a short laugh as he shook his head. "Your family will make a fortune importing tobacco from an eccentric American family living in a God awful place called Virginia."

"Why am I not surprised?" I joked. "Tobacco will be more valuable than gold after the war. My father was never one to miss an opportunity. He really should have dedicated himself to business instead of the military."

A wave of pain rose within me. It took me a few moments to ride it out.

"My sister. Will she also have peace?"

"Yes, Ellery was a fine man, but she will marry one his equal. Will have three children, I might add," he added, smiling.

"And Ellery?"

"He has been at peace for quite some time. After his second visit to you in the desert, he was finally able to rest. He always wanted Liesl to find happiness when he was denied her."

My next words were difficult. "The woman I was to marry? It was not Agathe, was she?"

A look of sadness crossed Perkins' face before he shook his head. "It was not of your doing, Captain. Agathe's fate was already pre-destined, as was the other woman's and yours."

"I searched for Agathe, Perkins, on my final furlough. I did not want to accept when our life together should just be beginning, it was already over."

"I'm truly sorry, Captain. But if you had married Agathe, it would have been a serious mistake. It would have been difficult to correct given your religious beliefs. Your love would have grown into resentment, and she would have eventually been unfaithful to you."

"I don't believe you. Agathe never would have betrayed me." I spat the words at him.

"Her betrayal would have been with a subordinate officer reporting to you," he confirmed. "Your engagement was for the wrong reasons, Captain. It was due to the war and to the loneliness the two of you were experiencing. For you, it was also due to your assault by Guest and your self-doubts regarding your masculinity."

I said nothing, refusing to admit what I had feared all along.

"You both knew the real reasons deep down inside," Perkins said. "It's why Agathe wanted the engagement kept secret."

I turned away from him. The anger within me fought with denial. "Leave me, Perkins. Allow me peace in my final moments away from your poison. I would rather die alone."

Stubbornly, he remained beside me. "I have only shared with you shadows of the future, Captain, of what could have been. Time has been corrected and these shadows are no longer relevant."

My denial was consuming me.

"What of my child which Agathe was carrying?"

Perkins remained quiet, giving me my answer.

"An innocent child? Please, not the child also! For once have mercy on me. At least allow the child to survive," I begged.

Perkins face was unbelievably soft and gentle in a way I had never seen it before.

"This son was not meant to be yours, either."

"A son?"

"Yes, a boy."

I smiled at the knowledge of having a son even though he was now safe in Heaven. An unbelievable sense of loss and sadness overwhelmed me. I had hoped the child would live in a better world than mine. But, like so much else, it wasn't to be.

I now understood the loss other men and their families had experienced during the war. While losing my men in combat was something I would never forget, I had not experienced a personal loss.

Now I had.

I had been blessed and fortunate and had never realized it. I had lost everything of any value. The war, my men, my family, Agathe, my child. I was close to losing my sanity with all the killing.

I had nothing left to offer the God of War.

Except for my own life.

"One wish, Perkins. The woman, the red-haired American doctor, the one you said I was to marry."

"You've never forgotten her, have you?" He sat back on his heels, a broad smile creasing his face.

"She was too intriguing to forget. She kept weaving in and out of my life at a distance, someone I could never grasp, but always there."

Another spasm of pain raced through me, and I couldn't stop myself from grasping his hand, hoping to steady myself against it. I held unto him so tightly I thought I would break his hand. My body arched, my head thrown back in a silent scream to the gray sky.

Perkins waited patiently for my throes of misery to subside.

"What is your wish regarding the woman?" he requested.

"Don't have her remain a spinster. Deliver her to someone special, someone who will truly love and honor her. Grant her a happy and fulfilling life."

"Some things never change. Still thinking of others?" he chided me. "Even a woman you have never met?"

"After all these years, I feel like I have met her, frequently, in my dreams."

Perkins gave me a slight smile. "Alright, I'm not really supposed to grant final wishes, against the rules, you see. But I don't think the higher ups will find out. They're a bit tied up with the war still going on. I should be able to slip this one by their post-mortem audit of your case. I believe, given the circumstances, it will be all right if it will provide you some closure."

He glanced around as if to ensure a heavenly official wasn't about to appear and chastise him for breaking the rules. He reached out and took my hand between his rough and calloused ones, and placed it on his cheek.

"I promise you the woman will marry an extraordinary, honorable man. A man who is worthy of her, one who will love her as deeply as she loves him. The two of them will truly have a wonderful and lengthy life together."

"Thank you, Perkins. Your reassurance means quite a bit to me." I paused for a moment. "And her name? You never told me."

He smiled. "Maureen."

"Maureen," I said, enjoying the feel of her name on my tongue. "Beautiful. I now understand," I said with a knowing smile. "It rhymes with 'Irene'."

Pain again consumed me. This time, I could not prevent myself from screaming, the sound echoing among the trees. The agony lasted for several minutes until my remaining strength evaporated. I collapsed back to the ground.

"I apologize for my weakness," I managed to say when it subsided. I know what my father would think of me for not being stoic.

"You have been anything but weak. There is no one else to hear or judge you. Only Lyon and myself. And, as for your father, he would believe you to be incredibly brave and stoic," Perkins responded, as if I had spoken the words out loud.

I doubted Perkins. "Would he?"

"Your father would be weeping at the agony you are enduring. You have been nothing less than an extraordinary, honorable soldier, a man more than worthy to be his son."

"I did not fulfill my oath to Irene to ask for his forgiveness," I admitted with difficulty. "I had several opportunities over the years to do so."

"No, you didn't keep your oath," Perkins agreed.

"The timing was never right, the situation off." The lie sounded feeble even to me.

"Was it perhaps your apology would not have been truly sincere at those moments?" Perkins asked innocently.

"You know me too well, Perkins," I said, irritably.

"It's one of the perks of my position."

"I failed, Perkins. As an officer to Germany and to my men, a son to my father, and as a man with honor to myself. Not having self-honor is truly my only regret in life."

"You have been a noble, strong yet sinful man, Captain."

"The sin of the homosexual sex I allowed to happen with Guest?"

"There was no sin on your part. You were raped by Guest. A pleasurable rape, but rape all the same. You should hold no shame for ultimately enjoying what was done to you against your will."

Pain overwhelmed me. I began to convulse until it subsided. This time, I had no strength to scream out my agony.

"My, God! Shoot me," I begged to the two men. "Allow me to die with dignity. I'm unable to stand the pain anymore."

Lyon fell to his knees beside me. "You have nothing but dignity, Captain. More so than you can possibly imagine. You have more than proved it today and throughout the war. If only more soldiers possessed a fraction of it, the conflict would not have been so horrific."

The pain overtook me again, blinding in its intensity. Returning more and more frequently, and remaining longer, each bout was sharper than the last.

It was impossible for me to continue enduring it.

"Perkins, are you able to hear my confession and perform the Last Rites on me?" I gasped in short breaths. "I suggest you not to tarry. I have little time remaining, no matter what you say about my time of death."

"We're angels, not priests, Captain. You will be fine without confessing and without the Last Rites being administered to you. Rest assured, you won't need them."

I could see the storm clouds part for the briefest moment. I caught a final glimpse of the sun in its brilliance as it began dipping behind the trees.

Ah, finally the sunset Perkins foretold.

It would not be long now.

I began to pray out loud, still desperately clutching unto Perkins' hand.

"Almighty God, I give you thanks for surrounding me, as daylight fades, with the brightness of your light. I implore you of your great mercy, as you enfold me with the radiance of this light, so you would shine into my heart the brightness of your Holy Spirit through Jesus Christ our Lord."

I found myself now strangely at peace. It was the first time I had ever experienced such complete peace. I felt myself relaxing, settling deep into the snow, my eyes becoming heavy until I had no strength remaining with which to keep them open.

Desperately, I wanted to live, but I accepted the inevitability of dying.

The pain had melted away. I could no longer feel anything. The anxiety and anguish which had been my constant companion throughout my life were absent. It was a delicious feeling, better than heroin. Yet this was a natural feeling, without the numbness and stupor the drug brought with it.

So this is what it was like to die. It was so beautiful!

Highlights of my life flashed before me in an instant. . .

Fishing with my grandfather, having sex the first time, knowing Irene, graduating from the Academy, encountering the fortune teller, purchasing my first O'Keefe painting, reporting to Rommel, overcoming hopeless odds at Jufra, succeeding the few times against the Rat Patrol, embracing heroin, knowing I was to become a father, witnessing the Rommels' final dance, having hope at the intoxicating combat at Unternehmen Wacht am Rhein, delivering Frege to safety, and finally, savoring the simple pleasure of a chocolate bar yesterday with my men.

Ah! So much in such a short time!

"I had a wonderful life, Perkins."

"Yes, you did, Captain. Few men have lived a life such as yours."

"Good-bye, Perkins and Lyon," I said with the last of my remaining strength.

My breaths were now shallow, my chest barely rising.

"Good-bye. It was an honor to serve you, Sir," Lyon responded in his crisp voice.

"Good night, Captain," Perkins replied, squeezing my hand to provide courage. "We will cross paths again." I could feel him lean down and lightly kiss me on the forehead.

My eyes remained closed. "Has night already fallen to end my suffering?"

"No, Captain," I heard him as if he was fading away far off into the distance, his final words faint. "Not yet. But it will shortly. You don't have much longer to wait. I promise."

I felt relief. It was finally over.

Then, I slipped away and there was nothing.


	15. Epilogue

"Where did you get it?"

The voice was deadly calm, but it barely contained the anger. The man gripped the private's wrist like an iron vice.

The private held a cigarette lighter in his hand. He had been showing off the beautiful object to anyone near him who wanted a look. The commandeered German beer garden was crowded with off duty Allied soldiers hell bent on enjoying themselves. Here and there were women made up of mostly Allied support staff and a few German girls seeking the company of the victors.

"Got it off a dead Kraut major." The private smirked, proud of his deed. "Why, you want it? I'll sell it to you cheap. Say, fifty bucks? And it's a steal, at that. Workmanship is first rate."

The private tried to free his arm, but the other man's grip only tightened.

"Are you sure the dead German officer was a major, and not a captain?" the man asked.

"I think I can tell a Kraut major when I see one. Wasn't like he was moving or trying to hide." The man began thinking out loud. "Should have taken the major bars off him, though. Haven't come across many dead majors. Not on either side, come to think of it.

"What was his condition?"

The private looked at the man incredulously. "I've already told you. Dead as a doornail."

"Anything else about him you remember?"

"I dunno." The private shrugged. "The guy looked like something the cat dragged in and the dog had dragged back out again. Maybe he was a grunt who took a dead officer's coat to wear, hoping for better conditions in a POW camp." The private shook his head at the memory. "Although the coat wasn't much of a thing to wear. Not even fit for rags."

The sergeant's eyes bored into the private. "Are you sure he was dead?"

"How many times do I have to tell you? He looked dead to me. Nailed by two shots, half his side sliced open, guts spilling out unto the ground. Don't get much deader. Must've been there for a while. The blood around him had already turned black in the snow. No way anyone could live through that."

Finally, the private wrenched his arm free. He rubbed his wrist. It was already beginning to bruise up. As dangerous as he seemed, the sergeant was the only person who had shown any interest in the lighter.

Not wanting to pass up a potential deal, the private returned to bartering.

"So, you want the lighter or not? I'm not going to beg you to take if off my hands."

The sergeant again ignored the deal, only interested in the lighter's former owner.

"Where was the German? When did you take the lighter?"

"Up the road five or six miles, in an area already cleared of Krauts. Earlier today." The private rubbed the lighter against his shirt to shine it. He held it up for the sergeant to examine. "Okay, last time: Do you want it or not? I'll give it to you for thirty, but not a penny less. There's others who'd love to take it just to show the dames."

"You're gonna do better than just giving me a vague location, Private. You're going to take me there and show me his body."

The private was completely exasperated. "What's the big deal about this guy, Sarge? So I stole a lighter off a dead Kraut major. Who cares? I'm not the first one to lift a pretty bauble. He had already stolen it from some Limey grunt. How many Kraut officers do you know who carry a British lighter engraved with the name 'James Lyon'?"

"As a matter of fact, I do happen to know a German officer who carries that exact same lighter. You bastard! What did you do to him? What else did you take from him?" the sergeant demanded, shoving the private up against the wall.

The bar became quiet, all eyes on the two men.

"Nothing, I swear! He didn't have anything else on him, not even a watch or a pay book. Either someone else had already gotten to him before me or he didn't have anything else to steal. Left his tags on him, though, so he could receive a decent burial. Even I have my limit."

The sergeant pried the lighter from the private's hand and held it briefly. His eyes widened before he placed it into his own breast pocket.

The private knew he had already pushed his luck. He didn't protest the sergeant taking the lighter.

"You're going to take me there," the sergeant ordered. "And you're going to do it right now."

"Are you crazy, Sarge? It will be dark soon and the forest is crawling with SS lunatics still believing in victory for the one and only Heil Hitler. I'm not going to get myself killed over a dead body, especially a dead Kraut one. Find somebody else to help you locate the piece of shit. It's just one less German we'll have to kill the next time. Who cares about him?"

"I happen to care about him! And he's not a piece of shit. He's one of the most decent soldiers I've known, from either side." The sergeant, eyes blazing, grabbed the private by his shirt front, pulling his face close to his. "I don't care if it takes all night to find his body. We're staying out there until we do, so I highly suggest we get going before darkness falls. I'd hate to leave you stripped and staked on the ground for the SS to deal with. Understand?"

The private realized he had stepped into something beyond him. He gave a shaky nod.

"You're putting the both of us at risk, though, just for a lousy Kraut. I'm taking this as a direct order."

The sergeant grinned, not quite hiding the hint of homicidal maniac which shone in his eyes. "Thought you'd see it my way."

"Hitch!" Sergeant Troy yelled towards the back of the bar. "Let's shake it. We're leaving."

"Awww, Sarge! We just got here. It's the first free time we've had in weeks."

Troy glared. "Now."

"You know they actually have cold beer, here, right?" Hitch pouted like a kid who was being pulled out of a candy store without even a peppermint stick to show for his trouble. "And, have you seen the dames?"

Troy was unmoved, both by the rarity of a cold beer and the accessibility of an easy lay. He had more important matters, those of life and death, on his mind. "Hitchcock, go find Tully. I'll grab Moffitt. We're outta here in less than five."

Smarter than to risk protesting again, Hitch went off to do as he had been ordered. All the while muttering to himself about cold beer, pretty girls and missed opportunities.

Troy found Moffitt sitting near the entrance of the bar. He had a pretty blonde on his lap and a loopy smile on his face which was, no doubt the combined result of one too many drinks and the imminent prospect of romance.

"Moffitt, we're leaving," said Troy.

"In a bit, Troy. As I'm sure you can see, I'm rather in the middle of something." With only eyes for the girl, Moffitt had barely spared Troy a look. "Apologies for the interruption. Where were we? Oh, yes, as I was saying, I'd very much like the opportunity to get to know you better. Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner?"

The woman gave Moffitt a nod and a broad smile. Her bright red lipstick showed off surprisingly even white teeth, especially for an English girl.

Troy had never ceased to be amazed the line worked as well as it always seemed to for Moffitt. However, he did notice this time, Moffitt wasn't extending the invitation to include him.

"Capital," said Moffitt, returning the girl's smile as he closed in for a kiss.

"Moffitt. . ." Troy began, his voice low with warning.

Moffitt stopped mid-way to the girl's lips and turned one eye towards Troy. Reluctantly, he pulled back. "Oh yes, Troy. How very rude of me! Jane, this is Sergeant Sam Troy. Troy, this is-"

Troy and Jane both looked at Moffitt expectantly.

Moffitt frowned, embarrassed. "I say, I am sorry, but I didn't catch your entire name. Or, even your rank."

"Neither is important, is it, love? Jane will do just fine for now." Jane gave Troy the once over before tightening her hold on Moffitt. "How do you do, Sergeant Troy?"

"A lot better than some." Troy narrowed his eyes. "Moffitt. Now."

"What's the rush, Troy? Surely, whatever it is, it will wait until tomorrow? After all, the evening is still young and full of infinite promise. Wouldn't you agree, Jane?"

"I might. Suppose it depends." Jane licked her lips. "What're you promising, exactly?"

Moffitt whispered something in Jane's ear which caused her to giggle. In turn, she whispered something to Moffitt. Whatever she said to him had caused his grin to go even loopier.

"Well now," murmured Moffitt appreciatively, his eyes half closed. "There's something you don't hear every day."

"Take a rain check, Romeo." Troy nearly rolled his own eyes. "We're leaving to find Dietrich."

"What? Did you just say 'Dietrich?'" The mention of the German's name had wiped the grin from Moffitt's face. "Troy, you can't be serious."

The private, sensibly silent since Troy had threatened him, honed in on the dissension growing between the two sergeants. Obviously trying to take advantage of it, he had decided to pipe up. "The sergeant here has got this crazy idea about seeing a dead kraut's body. And, all because of a lighter. He's making me take him there, even though the place will be crawling with insane Nazis."

Moffitt snorted and took a drink of his beer. "A lighter? Really now, there must be thousands of lighters like Dietrich's, Troy."

"Not like this one." Troy shook his head, adamantly standing his ground. "It's too unique, and I've seen it too many times to be mistaken."

"I see." Moffitt drained his mug and then opened his wallet. He looked at his companion with a charming but apologetic smile. "Jane dearest, I'm terribly sorry to ask, but I don't suppose you'd mind to go on a mission to freshen our drinks, would you?"

"Why not? Give you gents a minute alone to sort things out, won't it?" Jane looked at what Moffitt was offering her and shook her head. She opened her palm and waggled her fingers. "I'm not sure that's going to do it, Jackie Sweetie. Inflation, you know."

"What? Oh, yes, of course." Moffitt handed her another note of script.

After kissing Moffitt on the cheek, Jane tucked both bills down the front of her blouse. She blew Moffitt another kiss before she sashayed down the walkway like it was a promenade.

Moffitt's eyes remained solidly on her ass until she'd disappeared into the crowd.

Finally, he turned his full attention to Troy. His smile had vanished. "Have you gone mad?"

Troy, who had been asking himself the same question, shrugged. "Maybe."

"I don't understand. What do you hope to gain by going out looking for Dietrich?" Moffitt made a halfhearted attempt to wipe the lipstick from his face. "The private quite clearly said he was already dead."

"I don't believe him."

"Don't believe? Or, don't _want_ to believe?" Moffitt countered.

"Maybe it's a little of both," Troy admitted. "Look, Moffitt, I'm not ordering you to go with me. But I am walking out that door in less than a minute with Tully, Hitch, and my new friend the private to go find Dietrich."

"That's extremely unwise, old man, and you know it," Moffitt said. "As much as it pains me to agree with your new _friend_ , it's exactly as he's said. The SS are swarming all over this area. They'll little care if your mission is to rescue one of their own."

"Doesn't matter." Troy set his jaw, hoping Moffitt would get the picture. He wasn't in the mood for a debate. Dietrich sure as hell didn't have the time for one.

"Bloody hell." Moffitt ran a hand through his hair and squinted up at Troy. "The war's nearly over. It hardly seems prudent to get ourselves killed at the end of it while out looking for Dietrich's corpse."

"Doesn't matter," Troy reiterated, showing off his mile-wide stubborn streak just in case Moffitt had forgotten it existed.

"How could it possibly not matter? Dead is dead, isn't it? Not much we're going to be able to do about it."

"I don't believe Dietrich's dead. At least not yet."

"Oh, bloody hell," Moffitt said again, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "Really, Troy?"

"Really, Moffitt. Dietrich saved my life once. And yours, too. You wouldn't even be here to pick up cheap blondes if it wasn't for him."

"Surely, the young lady deserves better than that. At any rate, I certainly wouldn't call her cheap." Moffitt grinned ruefully. "She just relieved me of two pounds, our dear Jane did."

Troy watched as Jane bellied up to the bar, a big smile for all as she pushed in to settle between two handsome officers. "I hope you weren't expecting any change."

"No, not really." Moffitt's eyes followed Troy's, just in time to see the girl loop her arm around the neck of an American lieutenant. He sighed. "Though, I was expecting a bit of something else."

"I'm sorry, I know." Troy gave Moffitt one final look. "You with me?"

Still, Moffitt hesitated.

Troy saw Hitch and Tully. He caught Hitch's eye and nodded to him. Hitch nodded back and then jerked his head indicating they would be outside with the Jeeps.

"Fine, suit yourself." Troy, done with Moffitt, started for the door. "Stay here with your not-so-cheap blonde."

Moffitt caught Troy's arm. "If you feel so strongly about this, Troy, of course I'm with you."

"Thanks," Troy said. With relief and gratitude, he clapped Moffitt on the shoulder. "Now, let's go."

"I'd follow you to hell and back, Troy. And I feel I have done, very nearly literally, too." Moffitt gave Troy one of his cockeyed grins as they made their way through the growing crowd. "However, I will say, this is one of the strangest paths down which you've led me."

"I know it sounds crazy. But don't you see? I owe it to Dietrich."

For a moment, Troy stared out the door into the approaching darkness, the lighter nearly burning a hole through his pocket.

"I'll only believe Dietrich is dead when I see his body."

 **ACKNOWLEDGEMENT**

Many thanks to Susan, my beta reader for all her hard work and support to bring my story to life. And thanks also, again, for your encouragement to leave my comfort zone and to write upon difficult subjects.


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